


Sand and Water

by Radiolaria



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alien Culture, Alien Planet, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Camping, Claustrophobia, Denial of Feelings, Eventual Romance, Exploration, F/F, Feelings Realization, Friends to Lovers, Gen, I don't want to spoil who will turn up, Panic Attacks, Philippa Georgiou Lives, Slow Burn, Stranded, Tight Spaces, Wilderness Survival, it's basically two women on a camping trip, more or less, more tags and characters later, realising slowly their complicated feelings for each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-01-31 22:06:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 71,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18600322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radiolaria/pseuds/Radiolaria
Summary: Philippa Georgiou sets a star, but the Shenzhou doesn’t find them in the storm.While the order of the universe is rewritten without them near a binary star system, Captain Philippa Georgiou and Commander Michael Burnham are stranded on the Crepusculan homeworld and tasked with surviving on their own. But the storm carries echoes from the outside world, distorted and wounded, and unearths feelings long buried.





	1. Foehn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Persiflage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflage/gifts), [nomisunrider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomisunrider/gifts).



> A fic I have been toying with for more than a year now. Consider it a gift to my 14-year-old self who would devour travel writing and adventure stories, and dream of the women who were denied the right to explore these faraway places. 
> 
> Thank you to [nomisunrider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomisunrider/pseuds/nomisunrider) for her help and beta, as well as L. for her tired contribution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Foehn_ (German _Föhn_ ) is a "warm and dry, gusty wind that periodically descends the leeward slopes of nearly all mountains and mountain ranges." ([Source:Britannica](https://www.britannica.com/science/foehn))

Philippa Georgiou sets a star, but the _Shenzhou_ doesn’t find them in the storm.

Michael and Philippa head for the mountains just as the loudest part of the tempest hits them, a dense chaos of sand and debris hurled around by scathing air and carrying with it inhuman cries that remind Philippa of almost every other remote planetary corner she found herself stuck in.

It’s reassuring to find the same patterns amidst danger.

After ten minutes of laboring across dancing dust, Michael’s hand, its lines and curves, is the only map she can hold. Nothing sneaks past the howls —questions, reassurance or frustration—, and Philippa follows Michael’s blind pace without hesitation.

This isn’t the first storm they weather alone, although, for many reasons that Philippa’s deafened mind prefers to ignore right now, it might very well be the last.

With great difficulty, they reach the nearest mountain range. On their way down a few hours earlier, Philippa didn’t fail to identify nested inside a few cavities that could give sanctuary to them. Michael, through the abrasive wind and screaming sand, is the one to find shelter first.

The nook where they stumble is barely a closet, but sitting on the west side of the pass and high enough on the trails for them to hear each other’s breath for the first time in what seems like centuries.

Michael cannot help peering out, eyes wide under the goggles. From where Philippa is crouching, only the crimson, uneven wall of the cliff facing them blinks every so often from beyond the turmoil of sand.

“We packed rations for five days,” Philippa shouts, more for herself than for Michael, but not raising her voice is an impossible task in the constant tumult. The skin of her hands is raw, chafed by the elements, and she rummages through Michael’s supplies in search of something to calm the burning sensation.

Emergency appliances, lights and blasters, unpretentious med kits —they did not come equipped for camping. Hopefully, their small standard water synthesizer was plucked brand new from storage and the luminosity will be enough to recharge their batteries if they need it. Food might be an issue, but the _Shenzhou_ will find them before the week is over.

“And power for an eternity,” she concludes tartly. “Marvelous.”

The nano-regenerative paste Dr. Nambue menacingly shoved into the first aid kit smells like lemon, a perfume so jarring in this environment that Michael casts a look over her shoulder and crinkles her nose in disbelief. As soon as the unguent is applied, her fingers start greying with dust.

Philippa shakes her head, helplessly, “Number One, what is the verdict?”

Squatting near the entrance, tricorder in hand, Michael is examining the results with care, a pronounced frown on her features. After a nudge from Philippa’s foot, she shuffles closer, settling deeper in the cavity, across from Philippa, and accepts the paste Philippa unearthed with a grateful nod.

“I would need to perform proper examinations at greater altitude, but the winds could be blowing at an approximate of 140 kilometers per hour, the temperature at the heart of the clouds will be approaching 50°C by day, without taking into account lightning.”

An exasperated huff escapes Philippa. “Better stay clear of that beast then.”

Michael’s head dips, an indication of her amused disapproval. “Technically, we are already inside.”

“Belly of the beast then,” Philippa mordantly offers.

“Perhaps.” Michael’s goggles shoot up with her eyebrows. “Yet, it is a unique opportunity to study from the inside a storm on a giant planet. We never get to pursue such studies by ourselves. The Federation of Planetary Meteorological Alliance has revised the dangerousness of this category downwards precisely after prospectors found themselves stranded in one of them.”

Her eyes are full of wonder under the googles, and the wrinkles at the birth of her nose tell of a radiant smile, even if Philippa cannot see it under the scarf.

The hollow space is as narrow as it is misshapen, but it is pleasantly warm. Wrapped in her thick trekking gears, sitting across a familiar face lit by the blue screen and calmly sharing facts on storms, Philippa feels almost lulled into confidence.

Comfort, even.

As far as she is concerned, there is no other officer she’d rather get stuck with on a desert planet, if she really has to get stuck in a desert for a while. Michael has an intimate knowledge of dry climates after all and a greater familiarity with alien species. Across seven years, her company rarely, if ever, proved cumbersome to Philippa, their work in tandem always efficient and coordinated.

They will find a way out quickly.

“Fortunately for us, such tempests progress in cycles,” Michael resumes serenely, readjusting her position against the rock after peeking out. “I am currently attempting a projection based on the last data received from the _Shenzhou_ before we lost contact and my own readings here on the ground. We should experience a slight recess in under 18 hours.”

Philippa shakes her head, not trying to hide her displeasure. Slight recess isn’t enough, but Michael probably knows it as well as she does.

Still, they are safe and together for now, equipped even; it’s as good as it gets under the circumstances.

“Half the circadian rhythm of this planet.” Philippa removes entirely her goggles and applies pressure with her palm on her forehead, extending the massage to her scalp under the thick scarf. ”This will be a long night.”

Michael’s initial answer sounds suspiciously like a whistle, which is remarkable considering the loudness of the wind.

“More like a day. With the luminosity generated by the lightning and the starlight reflected onto the clouds, we will not get much dark.”

“Oh, just _cozy_. It will be just like that time the _Shenzhou’s_ light dampeners went AWOL.”

“I am sorry I cannot provide music to pass the time, Captain.”

Michael attempts to smile frankly and, embarrassed by the goggles, removes them promptly, untangling the hood and scarf to drop everything unceremoniously in her lap. The sequence is endearing beyond belief, and Philippa bites back a smirk, saturated with fondness, layered in relief.

Thank the stars Saru is not the one beside her right now. If only because his limbs would take too much space.

“You are forgiven, Commander,” Philippa counters pleasantly, stopping short of engaging in small talk the second Michael’s eyes widen at her screen. In a breath, Michael’s attention is already back to the storm outside their shelter, and Philippa hums in contentment at the familiarity of the scene.

Patterns in the chaos.

_Michael._

Her long fingers around the tricorder. Her dark eyes brimming with curiosity. Her warm voice above the storm. Close, familiar.

But not always.

This was the secondary objective of the away-mission after all. Let Michael know that captaincy is within reach, even more than she could suspect if Terral is to be believed. Starfleet is in dire need of brilliant, exigent minds like hers at the helm of their ships with the long-term ambitious missions they want to launch in the near future, and Michael is right here.

Her youth worked against her for a time, but her intelligence and instinct finished to sway High Command, if they did not downright woo people like Katrina. Before her evaluations, even Anderson had to recognize that there was very little left to be taught to Michael, and certainly nothing that she couldn’t learn by helming her own ship. What she truly needs is a push that would force her to take the leap and lead her people, and unless something happens to Philippa, Michael isn’t going to get that push on the _Shenzhou._

If anything had gone to plan, Philippa would be writing at this moment one of her last reports to Starfleet High Command as Michael’s commanding officer. And eating her feelings out because, by the quadrants, is she going to miss her First Officer. Instead, she is stuck on a planet trying very hard to trick her mind into thinking this is a swan song and not another one of their daring adventures.

The next intake of breath carries to her lips and nostrils notes of warm earth, fresh ozone and something deep and sweet, a compound of perfumes taken from a whole world, unknown to them until now. Cadmium slopes now watch them from afar and their inhabitants will tolerate them for the duration of their stay, with hope short.

Michael is right; they are at the heart of a non-celestial event, made unique to them by its very length, its scope. Breathtaking. Incomprehensible. World-altering. When the planet will shake off the storm in nearly a hundred years, the mountains will have changed. If this is it, what an invigorating last escapade to share.

Shaking herself off, Philippa rocks on her heels into a crouching position to edge closer to Michael, still absorbed in the furious landscape outside. Squinting at the luminosity outside, she places a hand on her shoulder, requesting her attention, and settles by her side. Determined, dark eyes peer back into hers, a well of strength, warmth and intelligence, alight with a silent question.

Michael will make an exceptional captain.

When they get out of this.

“We will sit down the brunt of the storm and attempt to reach _Shenzhou_ in 18 hours,” Philippa states evenly. There isn’t much to do for now and she accepted a long time ago that a life of exploration demanded waiting as much as it did exploring. “Does it seem like a plan to you, Commander?”

Michael’s tone rings more chipper than expected: “Aye, Captain.”

Philippa huffs, unconvinced, “Really?”

“I knew what I was signing up for when I agreed to be beamed down with you,” comes the impassible answer.

Philippa simply raises an eyebrow, ready to comment on Michael’s backhanded compliment, but the twitch at the corner of her mouth and the glint in her eyes appear too much a hook for Philippa to bite.

“Uncomfortable nooks and derelict ships, it is business as usual,” Michael adds, not relenting.

She is in fine form despite the circumstances. Philippa could swear she can detect pure enjoyment for their tribulations under her commander’s reserve.

Philippa’s eyes narrow, studying the confounding face before her and its deliberate attention on her instead of the once-in-a-lifetime meteorological event unfurling not two meters away from them.

Perhaps Michael is the last person she needs to be stranded with. By the Starfleet book, Philippa shouldn’t even be on planet with her Number One, but the temptation was too great not to part before one last trip. Something tells her that her heart is thankful for the delay and that something is unworthy of the proficiency and dedication she promised her protégée when she offered her a position as her XO two years ago. It was a gamble, given Michael’s reputation and age, but one that gave Philippa more professionally, personally, that she could hope for.

_Fine. Challenge accepted._

“Excellent. You have 89 years to get used to it.”


	2. Gyres

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuck under the quadrant's smallest shelter, Michael goes on a walk in her mind, and Philippa looks out for distractions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gyre, "in oceanography and climatology, [is] a vast circular system made up of ocean currents that spirals about a central point." ([Source:Britannica](https://www.britannica.com/science/gyre))

After a while, the wind outbursts leave room for a certain familiarity in Michael’s mind. On Vulcan, desert storms were frequent even in the urban, sheltered environment of Shi'Kahr when they were residing at the embassy. Compared to asteroid showers and supernovas, clouds of dust seemed unimposing to Michael’s young eyes, but the regularity with which they occurred had a definitive effect on her. One day, five months after her adoption by Sarek’s family, she woke up in her unfamiliar bed, covered in sweat, shaking at the sound of sand projected onto her window. It had been the third tempest this week. For as long as she would stay on Vulcan, the storms will never quiet and never fail to return, unless a planetary-wide cataclysm altered the wind patterns.

That morning, instead of absorbing herself in the series of short meditative exercises Amanda had devised to help her transition into a new rhythm of life, Michael had pressed her hands and forehead against the window and tried to feel the vibrations through the thick transparent paneling. She stayed like this until her eyebrows were numb under the pressure from the glass.

The same morning, she asked Sarek for the first time if they could go on a hike in the desert once the wind had fallen. Her foster father deemed her proposal illogical, but when the clock struck three in the afternoon, at a time when she had already learned not to disturb his work, he knocked on her door clad in bright walking robes.

The wind on the Crepusculan homeworld does not invite gentle treks. From their venture point in the naturally carved alcove, Michael and Philippa witness a selection from what the science officer suspects is the entire flora of the planet, torn away and tossed around by the capricious airstream. Every so often a diminutive flying creature of unidentified classification zoom haphazardly into their refuge, and Philippa chases it away immediately, with a curse on the lips.

“You are compromising greatly any attempt at studying the local fauna,” Michael comments as she tunes the transmitter.

Philippa shoots her a bemused look over her shoulder, before coiling back around her neck the scarf she used to scare off the intruder.

“I’m trying to prevent the local fauna from studying us too close.”

Michael raises an eyebrow at the device. “None is big enough to eat you, Philippa.” 

“I do not trust anything that flies this fast and that I cannot fly,” she offers in jest, even if there is a certain edge to her voice that Michael cannot identify with certainty, apprehension or impatience.

In Michael’s hands, the transponder beeps to indicate the appropriate range of frequencies is ready to be swept at regular intervals, and Philippa crouches up to Michael deeper inside the niche to inspect her work.

“All good?”

Michael nods without a word, taking in from up close the familiar ridges at the birth of her captain’s forehead. It is apprehension, although she does her best to conceal it, and Michael not to reveal she is noticing it.

Mirroring Michael’s posture against the rock, legs folded, Philippa settles beside her and reaches for the satchel containing their supply. 

“I guess we truly have nothing left to do then,” Philippa adds, tone pleasant. “Care to join me for dinner, Number One?”

The sentence has been uttered so regularly over the past two years in the brouhaha of the corridors that Michael looks up in quiet consternation. 

“Why do you always seem to orchestrate situations that prevent me from declining politely such offers?”

The container protecting their rations finds its place between them and the back of the alcove to prevent the sand from spoiling food. The supplies are scarce, even compressed and conditioned as they are, and Michael glances over the transmitter in her hand with worry.

“Michael.” Philippa’s voice finds her ear, gentle, and a package brushes against her elbow, gentler. 

The crisp sound of ration being opened and the smell, made alluring by her hunger, fills the tiny space. “Was there truly an occasion when you would have preferred to decline,” Philippa teases her still, “politely or else?”

Michael laughs quietly, shuffles near the entrance and stretches out to secure the transmitter between two rocks outside the cover of their shelter. With hope, the ship will pick up on their signal if they scan wide and deep enough, as protocols require.

“You always know how to entice me with delicate dishes,” she answers at last as she goes back to her spot in the alcove and accepts the offered package. 

Her captain looks reasonably pleased with herself, biting into a slice of substitute meat and vegetable as if it was a dumpling, a challenge on the tip of the eyebrow. Michael can feel a semblance of comfort spreading over her chest at last.

 _Some things never change._  

The evening is quiet, despite the ruckus on their doorstep. They are waiting, not idly, but waiting nonetheless. Their frugal meal is shared over traded expedition anecdotes, and Michael experiences pride over her ability to surprise Philippa as often as she does after all these years. Still, she cannot help the suspicion that part of her captain’s disbelief is merely hyperbole. 

“I don’t know if I should grant him a promotion or demotion for hiding this one from me for so long,” Philippa snickers into her water bottle.

“Should I be concerned that Lieutenant Januzzi never reported the incident to you, Captain?” Michael gingerly asks while nibbling into a handful of recomposed dehydrated apricots.

“Not necessarily. It means you have an indefectible ally in him.” Philippa’s hum sounds devious and an interested look from Michael rewards her. “Or leverage, depending on how you look at it.”

Michael frowns, out of curiosity rather than incomprehension. The idiosyncrasies of her commanding officer, if they have become familiar, still have not reached the stage of her understanding where they fail to lead to a surprising, albeit enjoyable outcome in the long term.

Her mouth produces a dubious sound before she clarifies her answer, “I have no leverage as of this instant since you have been informed. What do you mean to say, Captain?”

Philippa winks with both her eyes, so quickly Michael could have missed it.

“He doesn’t know that, Number One. Keep that in mind for your own ship.”

Her shoulders tense involuntarily, and in front of her Philippa does a better job of concealing her own surprised reaction, but it is there, in her hands and jaws.

The content of Michael’s almost empty single ration of re-formed molecular nuts appears more enticing than exploring why they both froze.

Guilt over their predicament might explain it, as promotion remains conditional on their getting out, but the very circumstances in which Philippa chose to disclose the news cast doubt on her state of mind, even before the announcement. It was not necessary for her to go on planet with her. And despite Michael’s often expressed eagerness to climb the ranks, her initial shock left her with such an indefinite, disagreeable impression that introspection is the only answer she can provide for now. It is also the most comfortable.

Beside her, head free of scarf, facing away, Philippa is contemplating the storm, the same interminable gusts of wind offering distraction to their field of vision for the past hours. On one side, an ever-moving wall of warm air, bright and menacing; one the other, the still, cold darkness of the stone, comforting but dense reprieve from death in the sun. In between, Philippa and Michael.

Isolation and meditation are out of the question at present. Her focus must remain on getting them out of here alive.

Michael sees her turning her head but fails to react before Philippa clears her throat and asks, congenially, ”Have I told you about the time Lena and I sunk our ship at the bottom of the ocean?”

_Did she ever…_

“No,” Michael lies, and Philippa watches her carefully, before recounting for the third time the sinking of the _USS Exupéry_.

The evening elapses like many evenings in the Captain’s quarters, in light banter and plan making. Such a mindless, time-wasting activity that brings confidence to Michael because of its familiarity. Philippa’s ideas to escape from their windy cage are certainly colorful, and ruling which one is pure fantasy and which one is “almost completely impossible” proves gratifying.

Philippa is distracting her, but Michael is thankful for the attention. A departure from the planet is entirely dependent on the _Shenzhou_ ’s ability to circumvent the electromagnetic interferences and locate them in the massive storm. How disagreeable to have so little control over the situation, to watch helpless the absence of an answer in the sky. Michael has to actively put this frustration aside because Philippa’s eyes are on her, kind, probing, reading her a little too well.

Surrendering at last, Philippa’s hands rub her face tiredly. Michael represses a yawn, her tension not forgotten but cloaked by weariness.

The journey in the sand and wind has finally caught up with her, leaving her, _them_ , empty, diminished for now, yet the day has not been longer than their regular shift on the _Shenzhou._ In the end, tricking one’s mind into believing that the night is dark and silent does not prove as big a challenge Michael expected. For now, they are safe, as the rock density read satisfactory around them and the bursts of wind attaining the cavity are few and far between.

And they are together, an observation Michael does not need to back with analyses.

In concert, they maneuver into a lying position, or as much as the depth of the niche allows, and wrap their body into thin emergency blankets.

As Michael tentatively lower her lids to assess the darkness of their temporary dormitory, an uncharacteristic grunt forces her eyes open.

She is wrapped too tightly in her cover to turn her body toward the source of the noise and she scowls at the roof of the cavity instead. “Captain?”

A small, disappointed sigh, barely audible above the wind, responds her at first. “We can’t see the stars from here.” 

The idea seems so absurd that Michael strains her neck to get a better look at Philippa, who has angled her body so she can peer outside.

“You would not see them with the storm and luminosity, even out,” Michael offers, not knowing if her words can bring any consolation. She would have loved to watch the stars as well, tonight especially.

“I know but…” Philippa moves her head around, a bundle of fabric and hair tucked in a corner of the natural alcove. “Given the hour of the day, we are on the versant of the planet that should see the Organa constellation.”

Michael’s eyes linger on Philippa’s supine form, trying to discern an intent in the line drawn by her shoulder and waist, but Michael can barely understand that the light pressure at her ankle must be from Philippa's foot.

“You studied the sky before landing,” she concludes with surprise.

“I read your prep,” comes the immediate answer. Her captain’s mind seems to be fully awake, extensive walks notwithstanding. Michael’s lids weigh heavy on her skull.

She hums noncommittally, drifting, before remembering the small mystery in Philippa’s words. “My report did not mention the stars visible from the planet. I did not deem this necessary.”

Something shuffles by her side and suddenly Philippa’s voice whispers much closer: “But you did research it.”

Michael does not mind —hers is a voice she has learned to trust over the years, often to seek out, even to appreciate.

“I always do,” Michael tries to articulate through her drowsiness.

“So did I. Did you know that we should see the Red Nebula as well particularly at this time of the year?”

Sleep comes to Michael easily, in gentle, heedless waves as Philippa absently comments on the constellations they cannot see through the storm and the cliffs, not hindrance anymore but reason to tell a story. Michael lets herself be carried.

“… _without troubling of a star_ 1 _,”_ finds her ear as she falls into a deep slumber.

Michael dreams of the _Shenzhou_ , of her desk and room left this morning and the traces of her life there. A book is waiting on her nightstand; it’s a thesis on the Arrow of Time in kite festivals. She recalls that Sybok gave it to her on their last meeting with the hope it could help her with her research, but she cannot recall which research he could be talking about.

Her last project involves growing flowers in the vacuum of space and ensuring bees could pollinate effectively there. How would a theory of time and kites affect them?

But he must have a point as she finds herself next in her spacesuit, securing kites to the flower container. Space is buzzing around her, her mind tricked by the chiming current in her suit and the echoed melody of her breathing.

The feeling of loneliness and the tune of the wind changing wake her up, and she immediately makes two observations before opening her eyes: Philippa is not by her side anymore and the change in sound comes from an obstacle on the wind’s course.

A few meters outside of the cavity, on the trail now running with vegetal and mineral debris, Philippa is intently studying the sky, securely wrapped in protective clothing. Pale and far against the orange backdrop.

It is as if Michael experienced a similar moment a thousand times before. It seems a thousand more will not be enough.

What an unpleasant yet stirring sensation to wake up to. 

Michael wishes this ordeal could be shorter, for their sake, but she cannot help savoring the time she has left with her captain. Philippa’s announcement earlier took her by surprise, which it should not have since Michael passed the tests and accumulated the hours. Her progression in Starfleet has been rapid and steady, her record impeccable; not to expect this final step would have been laughable. Yet, from the moment Philippa mentioned a promotion Michael’s thoughts became flooded with a mantra: _this might be our last mission together._

It is obvious Philippa does not need her by her side any longer, even if she still enjoys her presence, otherwise she would not have erected some of the barriers she set over the last few months. Michael understands, she does: the time has come to leave and make room for another one, like her five years ago, to be taken under Philippa’s wing and to be taught everything about what makes a good captain. Become her right hand, her close associate. It is the natural growth of an officer.

Her time with Philippa, their relationship, has come to matter a great deal to Michael, and not only because of Michael’s position as her First Officer. Vulcan and Human definition of the term may not align, but by her own observations, Michael would consider Philippa a friend, at least she senses a desire to do so, which according to Philippa indicates Michael does in effect consider her… 

A friend. 

Whom she will leave when she is given her own ship.

Michael does not have as many friends as Keyla, but she has enough to measure their importance in someone’s life, however absurd maintaining certain relationships appear to be. This one will soon cease to exist in the form it did for many years now.

Therefore, Michael has to preserve this moment, however imperfect the conditions, and she will not resent the weather for giving her a little more time.

Rolling uneasily to her side, Michael heaves a sigh and fumbles to untwist the robes and scarf caught together in the night. The dusty tricorder nearby indicates eight hours have passed since they last checked it before sleeping, seventeen since they left the _Shenzhou_. Michael’s mouth feels dry when she calls out a name that Philippa cannot possibly distinguish in the racket. 

Yet, Philippa turns her head toward Michael, shoots her a delighted smile and walks back to the fissure.

Her voice breaks through the wind like a bird call, “Slept well, Number One?”

Michael works her neck silently, stretches her legs and tentatively hops out of the shadows to meet her. The wind is less powerful than it was last night in the same spot, but one look up, and the red vortexes making up for the sky render useless all the readings she could perform.

The transmitter has fallen down a few meters and stands now head over heels in the sand, idly repeating its calls, their messages one-sided.

“My muscles did not suffer as much as expected,” Michael answers, swallowing her dissatisfaction.

It is not exactly a lie, but she cannot imagine how harsh the rock must have been on the captain’s notoriously bad back. She would rather not amplify her own discomfort out of mere annoyance.

 _Amusing._  

She has been making a habit out of manipulating the truth for Philippa’s sake.

Once they are back on the _Shenzhou_ , she will go into deep meditation for at least three hours; some habits should be quashed early, otherwise she will make a poor captain, worse, unworthy of Philippa’s teachings and trust.

With a sigh, she lets her eyes sweep the arid panorama before them, before settling on Philippa’s attentive face. “Was your night satisfactory, Captain?”

Philippa’s wry smile leaves little room for the possible success of her deceit. 

“Slept like a log. Shall we look around?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] From ‘The Mistress of Vision’ by Francis Thompson (1859–1907)


	3. Mooring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In need of settling down, Michael and Philippa burn the Prime Directive, draw a treasure map and find the rabbit hole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Putting the "trek" in Star Trek.
> 
> This slow burn is very slow, but I will have my classic exploration story if I have to die writing it.
> 
> Thank you to [nomisunrider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomisunrider/pseuds/nomisunrider) for her invaluable help.

“I will have to file a complaint about these boots.” Michael has to raise her voice a great deal to be heard in the pass.

Before her, Philippa slows down her pace to shout back: “A disciple of Surak would want them more stylish?”

“Lighter, Captain. Even so, they would benefit from different colors.”

The first recess finally hits, but they discover that they cannot contact the _Shenzhou_ any more than the previous day. Not that Philippa expects another outcome. She never doubted Michael’s maths on the storm, but she wishes human error would have left them wiggle room.

By Michael’s estimations, open sand is too hot to walk on for now, but the high rock faces Philippa stared at for hours last night cast a welcome shadow on the ground, and, more importantly, shield them from the worst of the storm. Their small party walked straight through the pass yesterday, looking up as much as their tight schedule would permit them, but there is little to contemplate beside the brightness of the environment. It feels like walking underwater, if the sea bottom could reflect intensely the sun and paint the depths golden.

They trudge blindly in the heat, —a dry, immovable heat that Philippa doesn’t find disagreeable yet—, stop behind a corner sheltering them a little more, chat and rehydrate before resuming their exploration. Over and over again.

After three hours, they have covered the length of the canyon, which sprawls in a wide serpentine shape, roughly going in the same direction before a sharp turn to the west. It must be their tenth pause when they come to the conclusion that they found nothing, neither a cave more suited to their immediate needs nor a tenuous signal from the _Shenzhou_. The crew must have started sending pulse calls to the area where they disappeared, but the surface is frustratingly vast considering the distance they covered on foot yesterday.

Philippa can tell exasperation is starting to build in her chest, as well as a dull, familiar pain across her back. Raising her eyes, she can see nothing but soaring walls of ginger, disappearing in a bright cloud where the sky is supposed to be. The edges move fast, blurred by the wind. Behind them, a turn revealing the same rock face; before them, the walled way running forward and fading in the dust.

The clenched fists at Michael’s sides are just as telling of her Number One’s views on their prospects.

Finding a higher spot to send a message became out of the question early on, the moment a shard of rock almost beheads them on their way up a slightly elevated platform.

Not crush them; _slice_ their necks.

The wind is that strong.

“What about... setting another star?” Michael is panting after stumbling for the third time from a rock supposed to give her a better view on an adjacent pass. Identifying an opening in the rock, whatever the altitude, has proven more difficult than anticipated, and the day is advancing.

Between two gulps of water, Philippa answers, “I doubt there is enough sand down there to draw anything. Besides, the wind would erase it in an instant.”

In two leaps, Michael joins her, and Philippa is amazed to find that her expression under the goggles doesn’t reflect her own despair.

Michael gestures toward the blaster at her side. “I was thinking of a more permanent message.”

Philippa cannot do anything but stare at the woman in front of her for a solid minute before answering. Damaging alien, particularly primitive environment is not like Michael at all, but somehow her ability to come up with that kind of extreme plan is exactly what Philippa has learned to expect from her over the years.

“Are you suggesting we burn the smoothest and largest surface we can access?” Her tone does not skimp on dryness, but Philippa makes sure Michael gets it’s not completely out of the question. “What would we write? SOS?”

Michael has the decency to bend her head in contrition before her plan, yet her frame seems taller, prouder despite the dusty trekking gears.

“The mass of sand moved by the wind has to be lighter across the canyon, as the dust there went through lesser erosion.” Michael talks, evenly at first, then with gradual animation. “A scan would spot the cliffs more easily in the storm. A bold discoloration of the rock, even at the bottom of the path, would attract attention, provided no other canyon exhibits a similar pattern.”

She looks down on Philippa leaning against a smooth rock, and Philippa swears there is a smirk under that scarf.

“The chances of a naturally occurring SOS are small, don’t you think, Captain?”

The glint in Michael’s eye, visible when Philippa rises to take a step closer, convinces her more than the factors she is evaluating — their energy supply, their food and water rations, the time spent walking and surface traveled, the environment they are currently trapped in, the visibility from space. Philippa hasn’t always been known for the cautiousness of her decisions, and Michael’s idea sounds along the line of many of her bad ones. But it is also the only option they have to contact the ship for now. If anything, shooting at things will help release a little of the tension in her body.

Philippa’s smirk is difficult to repress.

“Okay. Let’s burn the Prime Directive.”

And with that, they retrace their steps to a sheltered area nearby, large enough for a ship in low orbit to perceive from the sky. After a quick recalibration of the weapon, so the damage is only superficial, and cleaning of the surface of gravel and soil, they take turns to melt the ground into one message, two messages. The process is less arduous than expected owing to the nature of the rock, which Michael identifies as a composite of alien sandstone. The heat generated is infernal, and Philippa focuses on Michael’s voice above the nerve-wracking buzz and constant wind howling.

“Did the Academy have a geology course?” Michael calls out, resting nearby after a quick glimpse into a near breach.

“One course,” Philippa cries back. She’s been glowering at the same square of burnt ground for so long she might see stars there. “With so few credits many students didn’t bother to come. Studying from home was just as efficient.”

“So you would be unaware of the fascinating properties of such stone?”

A scoff escapes Philippa. “I can tell you how to drill a bolt into it?”

Philippa can practically hear Michael shaking her head out of disbelief. She finishes carving the letter with a minute smile.

One line after the other; one anecdote.

Despite her volubility on the subject of alien geology, Michael casts furtive looks to the top of the plateaus, stiffening at each hit.

Philippa stands back and calls, “High Command can cry about the Prime Directive all they want, they will have to hear me first about that atmospheric shield they promised the _Shenzhou_ a year ago.”

With a grimace at her handiwork on the rock, she checks the energy left. “ _Eh_. This one is not as good. We need to recharge.”

Michael jogs a few meters back and squints at the familiar four-pointed shape carved in the ground, dark and jagged over the golden concretions.

“The shrubberies make for unusual pips,” Michael shouts politely, where caustiness would have been expected. Either she is preoccupied or mindful of Philippa’s feelings, it’s difficult to tell with the wind whistling in her ears.

Philippa walks up to Michael. Even the goggles, scarf and hood cannot contain Michael’s sarcastic eyebrow. At least they can see each other in this weather. Michael’s fringe peaks from under her hood, tousled and sandy, giving her the air of a dashing adventurer, ready to flash a grin and jump into a waterfall to escape a horde of treasure hunters. Philippa probably shouldn’t tell her that.

“Good thing it’s our crew that will rescue us,” Philippa says instead, “otherwise we would be in trouble.”

“Do you mean, more than we are in right now?” Michael quips as she leans against the nearest rock, before giving up and sliding to the floor.

Philippa waves her hand in jest and pushes away her weapon, letting it hang head down from her back, its warmth comforting across her tired muscles.

From her spot on the ground, Michael eyes her closely, causing Philippa to straighten her back immediately. An expedition is as good as its leader, and right now she isn’t capable of anything but slouching.

Michael doesn’t comment on it, instead tugs at her scarf to reveal her face and offers an unsure smile that blooms into a beam in an instant. Philippa stops short of exclaiming; even unsure, even timid as it is, Michael’s delight is a sight for sore eyes. Perhaps, she knows, which makes the attention all the more precious.

“Come on, Captain,” Michael speaks in a soft voice, rising calmly to her feet, as if they weren’t stranded, lost and alone. “I think I’ve spotted a shadow on a wall that could potentially hide an entrance.”

Right, not alone. Michael smiles with her eyes this time, and Philippa marvels at how much she changed since their first encounter.

“Stars, have we stopped falling into the rabbit hole at last?” Philippa replies in a whisper.

Michael is close enough to hear her and closer even to offer her hand, inviting her to follow to the northern part of the canyon. Against her chaffed fingers, Michael’s skin feels soft, warm.

“No more falling required, Captain. But crawling might be involved. And spotting a few feral beasts.”

Eyebrow quirked, Philippa bites back: “I am always game for feral beasts, Commander.”

Earlier, while Philippa was tracing the “O”, Michael’s third inspection of the north-east deep revealed a cavity about one meter above the ground. Its apparent lack of depth was due to an aggregate of dried branches in the entrance, tricking the eyes to perceive a rock slide in the place of a gentle path up into the mountain.

After a hearty clearing involving far more _Alice in Wonderland_ references than Philippa could endure —her fault; she did start it—, they duck to go deeper into a large, unexpectedly lit bowel inside the western block of the north-east deep. Phillippa calls it north-east deep, but it must have a name in the trilling, tenuous language floating above them every so often.

The Crepusculans must be cowering away from them, which explains why they haven’t encountered any of them yet. Philippa cannot help but wince at the intrusion this constitutes. _Prime directive, my foot._ For Starfleet, a violation is not one until they get caught, and they did.

Yet, upon stumbling into a natural hall after a few meters of exploration on their hands and knees, it’s difficult to see their situation as fortuitous.

Philippa gets on her feet with Michael’s help, and whistles in admiration.

The cave just uncovered comprises of a vast oblong space, about 15 meters by 8 meters, with smaller cavities along its sides. The ground beneath their feet is even, or as even as a surface carved by water can be, and the thin layer of dust cannot cover the warm tones of the sandstone on the floor. Here and there are boulders, smooth as glass, standing like oddly shaped furniture, and the patches of lichen or mushroom on the wall reminds her of artless windows.

“It appears almost human-made,” Michael marvels as she runs her hand over the rock and begins scanning the walls.

Philippa’s grumble is less enthusiastic, “It needs dusting and cleaning.”

“Priorities, Captain. We do not have water to spare.”

Opening her hands in defeat, Philippa does a quick tour of the different chambers in search of signs the cave has been or is inhabited by a creature. The four larger alcoves appear at first glance to be old collapsed tunnels, judging by the disposition of the rocks, and their sizes range from battleship bathroom to small conference room.

Her hands run down the dips and scars, almost hoping to find weaknesses there.

They should not be settling down; developing more ways to contact the _Shenzhou_ as soon as possible should be a priority.

It’s impressive what hearing herself ponder after so long in the wind can do to her thoughts.

_What are they doing here exactly?_

No one can see them here and no signal can find them through the mountain. Yet they can breathe, they can think, they can stop fighting their body’s plea for a rest: it is a safe place.

Philippa, eyes on the smooth, naked walls, does not feel safe.

She’s always hated moving into a new place with a passion, even as a child. The novelty of the people, the environment, the ways, she found exciting, but the implicit requirement to make an empty room her own brings her to a state close to panic. It eventually fades away in the explosion of activity inherent to installation into a new dorm, new quarters, a new flat. Every place, everyone ends up feeling like home after she scatters herself there. Nonetheless, those first instants when she has to project a part of herself onto this blank canvas and inevitably accepts that she will leave a trace there intimidate her more than she can tell.

Perhaps this is why she never gets stranded that long anywhere. She walks the distance and breaks out of the labyrinth, alone or accompanied —it doesn’t matter; she escapes. Her mindset focuses on not projecting herself settling into that environment, and it usually works. This feels like accepting they could be here for long. Perhaps if the cave had been a little smaller, a little darker, it would have appeared less like accepting their fate.

They are not supposed to be there. Michael, particularly. Who is safe, now, in here, from the heat, and the wind, and the rocks. It is enough.

 _It is more than enough_ , she corrects, recalling the evident pleasure Michael is taking in this expedition, despite the very present concern for the tardy rescue. Perhaps pleasure is too strong a word, but Michael appears at home in the chaos and uncertainty of their situation. Many a time during the day Philippa found herself alarmed by the dangerousness of the path in the gorge beaten by the weather and under-equipped as they were. Michael carried on.

 _Michael fears nothing and delights in everything._ For her, Philippa has to be a better, stronger captain for a little longer.

Philippa takes a deep breath, shakes herself off and calls out from the smallest cavity, “How come there’s no one here?”

Michael’s voice resonates within the walls of the larger space, “I was wondering as well. Predator?”

“I see no trace of any.”

Philippa kicks a pebble and sends it rolling across the room. Despite the wind howling outside, the awaited sound reaches her ear, and Philippa realizes she already grew accustomed to the constant turbulent backdrop.

“In such harsh environments, even the creatures at the top of the food chain are small,” Michael offers as she joins her near the third chamber, tricorder out of sight and eyes on the high ceiling.

“Going by the size of the nests we saw on top,” she adds with a hand on the wall, “the Crepusculans may well be the apex predators in the area, developing a rapport akin to early Humans with their environment, learning to utilise natural resources and warding off smaller, more fit hunters.”

Naturally, Michael would already have a solid study of the local population without meeting them. Impressed, Philippa hums in approbation and nudges Michael back into the main hall.

“Do we need to worry about being eaten?” Philippa teases, feeling quite confident in her own assessment of the cave and its absence of inhabitants.

“I need more data.” Michael’s voice sounds deadly serious. “But I think the creatures are to be thanked for the absence of bears in this abode.”

“Do we need to worry about _bears_?” Philippa’s tone modulates toward lighthearted alarm, and the laughter coming from behind her is music to her ears.

“ _No_ , Captain, no bears in the area,” Michael answers, her voice almost singing.

Back to the main cavity, the most remarkable feature of the cave is the wide opening in the stalactite-covered ceiling, resembling a large chimney. When Philippa positions herself under the aperture, she can distinguish a piece of crimson sky high above, through layers of shadows.

That explains the acceptable luminosity of the place.

“Interesting.”

Her voice is much closer than Philippa anticipated, and the touch of hair tickles her ear, sending shivers down her spine; Philippa stiffens in her twisted posture, almost startled, but doesn’t put distance between them. Now’s not the time to lecture her about etiquette.

“The vegetation seems to be filtering the sand that could enter the bowel,” Michael continues, quiet fascination in her tone. “And if there are roots there, it means there must be water, maybe condensation.”

“Impluvium or not,” Philippa grumbles with an appreciative squint for the opening, “it is far more secure than our previous abode. And closer to the spot where we were dropped.”

“There is no chance of rain, but—” The pause wouldn’t have been one in Detmer’s mouth or Nambue, barely a hesitation. In the middle of Michael’s precise and swift phrasing, it weighs heavy. “The chances are higher for them to find us. Or the Crepusculans.”

Optimism is all they have. And each other.

They stand straight, Michael still uncharacteristically close. The possibility that Philippa’s presence might bring just as much comfort to Micheal as hers does to Philippa lights a frail spark in her, one she hadn’t experienced in months. Not unwelcome.

Philippa’s eyes roam the premise, acutely aware of Michael’s attention on her.

“What do you say, Captain? This can be our new home, if you want it to.”

The use of her own words against her doesn’t surprise her.

The sensible thing to do is to focus on their immediate security, not flee ahead and shout at the burning sky in the hope someone finds them. They will make plans to escape later when they have rested and checked on their energy and water supplies. How fateful that they managed to open the well before the storm hit.

Her eyes trail to Michael, her scarf hanging undone around her neck, her wind-swept hair, worn proudly, the eager roundness of her cheeks. There is a nervous impatience to the way she stands, clutching her scanner, shoulders back and chin up.

_She is enjoying this._

Philippa heaves a sigh, “Alright, but let me mark the entrance so that someone will have a clue where to find us if ever they decide to come searching for us. We are turning this canyon into a treasure map, it’s preposterous.”


	4. Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunsets and darkness. Michael is in search of purpose and Philippa builds a door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for tight spaces and mild claustrophobia.

Above the door, Philippa burns a mark in the shape of an arrow. With its uneven proportions, it bears a striking resemblance to a simplistic crane, wings spread above its head. The dark scar marring the rock face’s surface will not fail to get a hypothetical scouting party’s attention.

Soon, the night starts falling and they sit down in the fresh entrance and tear open their rations. The first proper night on this world.

Facing the eastern wall in front of their shelter, they eat in silence. A sliver of golden cloud runs above the edge of the cliff and turns an unexpected shade of pink, flushed against the red stone. There is beauty in the way the colors cascade into deep and deeper pink, the last streaks of light expanding the irregularities of the rock until nothing is left of the pass but a grey shadow, shifting with the wind and emphasized every so often by the cold blaze of distant lightning.

Vulcan discipline has taught Michael that contemplation has its merits: the quiet study of a landscape helps the mind order thoughts just as much as keeping an account of them. Recording logs here would needlessly waste power, and meditation hardly suits the precariousness of their situation, so sunset gazing will do.

However, Michael does not pay as much attention to the sky as her forefathers would expect her to.

Lounging gracefully on the edge of the wall, Philippa follows the slow sunset with a raptured expression, her furrowed brows softening with every instant, her lips quivering as if ever on the verge of talking. Trekking robes discarded, only the cream trousers and jersey remain, comfortable for now in the lingering warmth of the day. She does not acknowledge Michael’s close watch.

Unusual behavior.

Michael bites into her slab of nutrients, not breaking her study.

Rarely does their schedule allow room for sunsets, let alone in a setting as panoramic as this one. The captain keeps a famously ordained life on the ship, with little time assigned to contemplation, idle or meditative. Her present wonder, the layers of weariness and comfort adorning her face, revealing it, are new to Michael.

Laughter, concentration, irritation, all have a purpose on the ship, in the field, even in the privacy of her quarters when Philippa invites Michael over for tea. Philippa proves to be a remarkably purposeful individual, any exchange conducted with as much assurance as significance, significance that Michael has learned to interpret.

For years, asking _why_ to any and every gesture performed by colleagues has been received as a disrespectful request: people did not always know, did not want to know and, instinctively, Michael identified the behavior as consistency in Human inconsistency. Years of abiding to logic have left her suspicious of instinct, assumptions, even when they drive her first, and often happily.

So she has to ask _why_ , if only to herself, to reassure her instincts: there is always a reason. And Philippa’s intentions, albeit occasionally hidden to Michael, are consistent enough for her mind to latch onto them as subjects of studies, quandaries to solve.

Right now, Michael is at a loss before an open expression of marvel on her captain’s face and that seems to serve very little purpose. Her own confusion is the source of greater unrest.

Stirring Michael from her thoughts, Philippa whispers over the wind: “It is not every day that I get to eat in pitch darkness.”

Michael opens her mouth and no sound comes out at first, nonplussed as she is before the sibylline confession. If this is an answer to the ever-present question she did not ask, it is confusing.

“When does everyone?” she asks, her tone caustic by way of perplexity.

Philippa sits up and bends her knees before her, holding her wrist. The glance she sneaks toward Michael shines, amused, possibly impressed, before her attention turns back to the last splashes of light on the wall.

“Often, as a child.” Philippa’s voice comes from afar, a soft murmur barely floating above the wind. “We would play hide and seek in the garden, night long fallen while our families and neighbors were finishing dinner. Desserts always took ages to come and by the time the plates would be taken away to make room for new ones, there was no bringing us back to the table.”

Michael’s body stills as she is folding her half-empty ration pack to put away. Such anecdotes come generally with a moral, but instead, Philippa has a private, bitter smile, not meant for Michael’s eyes, the lines at the corner of her mouth scars from youth rather than a show of experience. Inside Michael’s chest, her breath catches, struck by the rarity of the moment.

“Lives ago.” Philippa scoffs and corrects her expression immediately. “Needless to say, Starfleet never trained us to scamper in the dark with our rations.”

Michael would not know. Starfleet never trained them for a lot of trials.

In the dying light, Philippa’s dark eyes glow, malicious. “Perhaps, they should have. What would Saru say if he found me here spilling the content of half a ration on me?”

Michael simply raises her eyebrows emphatically, eyes set on hers. No need for Michael to inspect the captain’s clothes; her captain conducts herself ideally at all times. Philippa notices and frowns, the brief display immediately switching to her perennially amused, all-knowing glare.

“Nothing,” Michael replies, shifting from her position further toward the threshold. The rock stands now darkened before them, large and immovable as the night. “Saru regards you with too great esteem to make such a remark. At least not to your face.”

Philippa gets to her feet in a rustle and snickers above Michael’s head. “Here’s the woman I chose for my First Officer.”

Michael hesitates a moment, unable to determine how to interpret her tone.

“Captain?”

Philippa has already begun the short journey to the interior of the cave, bent under the low roof of the bowel.

The confusion follows Michael for most of the night, long after she checks the muddy sky a last time and picks up her empty rations from the ground.

She has time to reflect. No rescue party will come in the dark.

The day’s work is not over; by lamplight, with the data gathered today and the day before, Michael works on constructing a map of the explored area while Philippa checks their supplies and puts a finishing touch to a door for the entrance. Made of branches and dried stems gathered on their doorstep, the structure has the appearance of an openwork fence, so numerous are the gaps.

“This will not even stop even air drafts,” Philippa remarks. “It’s a good thing I don’t have to decorate as well.”

Michael looks up from her work. Bent above the heaps of branches, Phillippa applies pressure to the frame to test its solidity, an absorbed frown tensing her brows. The robe now sits across her shoulders like a grey shawl, and Michael wonders how many more uses Philippa will find to the garment.

“For shame, Captain. I have no doubt your craftwork is exquisite.”

Philippa wrinkles her nose at the door first, then at Michael.

“Next time we get stranded, you build the door.”

Bathed in the cold steady light from the lamp, an orb the size of a fist, Michael could mistake the smooth rocks for a particularly quiet bridge near the end of a late shift, with the captain working silently in her chair while Michael touches up surveys on her terminal.

Two rocks need to be placed on the ground to ensure the makeshift gate’s stability, but with chance, it will keep most crawling creatures at bay, even if nothing can be done for visitors coming from above.

Their internal clock catches up to the darkness a little over halfway through the night.

The cave is kinder on Michael’s back than the alcove was, but in the relative silence of the cave, Philippa’s fretting a few meters from Michael appears resounding —small scratches and long breaths, indicative of reflection, cut in intervals with distinctive clicks, albeit hushed under the blanket. Her captain is elaborating plans, checking Michael’s map and making calculations, late in the planet’s night.

Such dedication is the reason Philippa has been awarded many times and has Michael’s admiration, but Michael cannot currently find comfort in her enduring efficiency. Philippa is likely straining herself. In her place.

Leaning on her elbows, Michael attempts to sit up, not knowing whether she should offer to share the load —as a future captain— or advise Philippa to go to sleep. Before Michael can make up her mind, Philippa halts her proceedings in the dark. She heaves a breath and tugs intently on her cover, suddenly showing conspicuous stillness.

 _Purpose_. Philippa wants Michael to rest.

She needs Michael to—

Her reflection hitches on the thought.

Philippa has always been intent on teaching, even when the subject is already mastered by Michael. She was trying to teach her something by coming with her on planet, by allowing her to go down in the first place. Michael let her because… Unclear. Michael has stopped needing Philippa as a teacher more than two years ago. There is just as much purpose in her own actions. Her refusal to press Philippa, to reach for her in the dark is telling of a certainty in need of definition.

Not now.

With a discreet sigh, Michael steers her mind toward tranquility, enforcing the simple exercise her mother gave her as a child to find sleep. The ever-expanding landscape where she retreats usually seems to have grown too complex for their simple cave. In her mind, Michael smooths the walls and stairs down to start a construction anew.

Sleep comes as she is putting together a library in an empty house.

 

If Michael dreams that night, she cannot remember anything. Daylight wakes her by surprise, casting a gentle, diffuse warmth across her lids.

Her eyes open, sluggish and questioning. Although she did not fall asleep close to the central natural chimney, the large ray of light coming from the aperture bounces off the rock where it falls and spreading a golden light around. Private quarters in warp light could not envelop her in a gentler glow.

“How does it compare to Vulcan morning?” Philippa’s voice rasps. It sounds lower than it does on their morning shift, deeper even than during their occasional breakfast together, an indication that she must have woken only a few minutes earlier.

Michael sits up on the ground, rubbing her forearms while searching for Philippa. Her captain is sitting cross-legged where she slept, two meters from Michael. Her eyes are trained on Michael, alert, while she is finishing a tight braid on her shoulder.

The temperature is colder than on Vulcan, particularly in the cave mostly kept in the dark, but something about the situation, the oddity and rhythm of it —Philippa’s fingers struggling to tie the end of her braid, the disorder of the blanket crumpled in Michael’s lap, and the wind, ever-present above their head— so divergent from their routine on the _Shenzhou,_ brings a sudden warmth to her cheeks, her neck.

“It does not compare,” Michael answers, scrambling to get up. As she dusts off her trousers and sweater, her shoulders protest made stiff by the ground, and Michael groans.

“Vulcan differs greatly from this planet, although I can grasp how for untrained eye similarities would arise.

Philippa arches a pleased eyebrow at her and bounces to her feet with a flourish.

“I see you are all ready for the day. _Good morning_ , Number One.”

Curiosity seizes Michael, and she intones in answer: “Good morning, Captain.”

Michael follows as Philippa beckons her closer and walks to where their communication device waits.

Whether her peppiness is all show or genuine, Michael can feel its effects, the recognizable drive to act rather than reflect. A welcome feeling under the circumstances.

“You seem satisfied with yourself,” Michael comments pleasantly.

Looking over her shoulder, Philippa hums. “I am. The wind appears to blow weaker today.”

Michael bows her head bringing her line of thoughts to its logical conclusion. A smile creeps onto her face and Michael surmises across the morning haze a similar display on Philippa’s face.

“You hope to climb to the plateau.”

Philippa nods in approbation and extracts their morning rations from the bag. They will be stretching their resources, but their demise seems far away when Philippa starts talking about rock adherence and high points.

Michael savors her breakfast while listening to Philippa’s ideas about efficient ways to substitute helmet or climbing ropes. Her captain’s enthusiasm is communicative. Philippa paces the cave’s length, her fingers rhythmically tapping on the scanner, the only indication she might experience more anguish over their situation than her sunny exterior lets on.

“It will be very old school mountaineering,” Philippa concludes, waving her hand diffidently as if pestering at the danger of the initiative.

“It is still less risky than waiting for our rations to deplete or the sand to bury us alive here,” Michael corrects her, earning a sharp look from Philippa.

“I am not sure we have much choice. The _Shenzhou_ needs a signal if we remain under cover here.”

“The Crepusculans’ egg sacs appear not to be affected by the wind.”

Noticing Philippa has not touched on her food yet, Michael rolls her eyes and grabs the pack to present it to Philippa, who glares in return but accepts with a grateful nod.

“This suggests solid bonds to the rock or absence of wind in this particular area,” Michael resumes. “Either way, we can use it to secure our transmitter.”

Philippa’s walk halts in the middle of the room, close to the well of light falling from the ceiling. Singular strands of hair escape her braid, lighting a soft crown above her hair. Arms folded over her chest, she holds in one hand her ignored ration and the scanner in the other, giving her the appearance of an old-fashioned icon.

“We can't climb from the ravine,” Philippa ponders out loud, playing with the rim of her ration. “And we don't have enough water to make the journey from the mountains. After a trip to the well, with appropriate containers, we could do it.”

One centimeter to the right and Philippa’s shoulder blaze alight, caught in the ray. These vertical shafts in the rock truly are a remarkable feature of the cave, whether they are natural or made by the Crepusculans. The shafts…

“I’ll go,” Michael exclaims.

An expression of blatant interest flashes on Philippa’s face, and Michael gestures toward the back of the cave.

“The tunnels I scanned upon arriving —not all of them are collapsed.” Michael walks purposefully toward one of the smaller cavities, still large enough to welcome a bridge terminal, and points to a hole one meter from the ground.

Philippa kneels and twists her body to get a closer look, narrowing her eyes at the opening where a person of Michael’s stature could fit.

A gasp escapes her, and she dives further into the alcove.

“Is this—“

“Light, it seems,” Michael explains, hands clasped tightly at her back, tilting her head to catch a glimpse of Philippa’s reaction. “Given the presence of another tunnel leading straight to the top of the plateau, it would not be too much of conjecture to assume—“

The furrow under Philippa’s hairline deepens, stopping Michael’s argument before Philippa does in words.

“Assumptions are unlike you.” Philippa retreats out of the alcove, hands behind her back, still holding onto ration and scanner. She aims a piercing look at Michael, sideways, before heading away back to the main cave. “No pads, no helmet, no ropes for spelunking? It sounds _dangerous_.”

Michael quickens her pace as she follows her footsteps, halting a few meters from her as Philippa immobilizes near the chimney, contemplative. No fear can transpire for her proposition to be received, but Michael is not sure she experiences fear under the circumstances.

“It sounds like a _challenge_ , Captain. You said it: old-fashioned exploration.”

The curve of Philippa’s cheek, even with her head turned away from Michael, betrays the twitch of a smile.

“I will take the necessary precautions.” Michael cannot quite contain her excitement, and Philippa’s appreciation of it, painted all over her body, is evident. “The opening cannot be far away after the turn for the light to be this strong.”

Philippa heaves a sigh that does not hide her interest.

“Just a peak. To see if it’s safe.” Watching her carefully, Philippa nods before turning on her heels and heading to the bag. “And then you come back. Do not go all the way up without me.”

Michael feels the grin spreading on her lips. “Just a peak.”

“I don’t want a flying bear to descend on you.”

“There are no bears here, Captain.”

****

The preparations take less time than anticipated, primarily because there is so little to prepare. They are criminally under-equipped for proper exploration. In no time Philippa separates and rewires the weapons’ lights to turn them into portable flashlights for Michael. The ample, rather impractical robe gets twisted tightly and tied around Michael’s head to work as a helmet. Philippa’s scarf is cut and reassembled into four pieces to provide crude pads for elbows and knees.

If anything goes wrong, Philippa can assemble the same equipment for her use and go look for Michael, this time with the bigger torch at their disposal.

“You look like you had a spat with a holonovel costume designer,” Philippa comments as she follows on Michael’s heels toward the cavity.

“I look like I am _safe_ , despite the circumstances.”

When Michael turns one last time to check with Philippa before climbing into the wall, she finds her captain unreadable, her hands clasped behind her back, chin up as if she is about to dispatch Michael for an EVA.

A well-worn setup, fathomable.

Philippa sends Michael away with an assured nod, not even stepping closer when Michael disappears into the hole, scanner in hand.

With the luminosity coming from outside, the passage spreads before her clearly, climbing gently for a few meters before a turn toward the light. But it lacks practicability, height, and Michael has to resort to her hands and knees after a meter. Starfleet’s trekking gears, made in thick fabric despite their apparent lightness, prove a blessing in the narrow tunnel. The scanner cannot reach far ahead, and there is a strong possibility the bowel narrows too quickly for Michael to even reach the light.

Michael focuses on the numbers blinking on the screen, their comforting frequency. Calculations and hypotheses, all alleviate the weight of the stone surrounding her.

Her progression is slow, hampered as she is by the dimension and the constant check on her scanner. The rock is remarkably dense and stable around her, another evidence against the hypothesis these passages are natural. She did not share her theories with Philippa: they would have brought her captain some assurance for her safety —the implausible bears seem to worry her enough—, but there is design in the regular breadth and declivity.

The Crepusculans could well have used these tunnels to climb down from the plateaus into the sheltered caves a long time ago. Naturally, such a hypothesis implies that they also abandoned this specific cave as well, and Michael is not too keen on learning why now, crammed as she is in a tunnel.

_23%_

_15°C_

_19.85%_

The oxygen levels are satisfactory, even though they definitely have receded, and Michael starts counting her steps, focusing on the scanner, the texture of the walls and the ground too distracting.

On Vulcan, she would explore the numerous caves surrounding T’El’s house with her friend in the spring. They could bring nothing with them or T’El’s mothers would have suspected what they were doing. The dust on their robes was always blamed on too vigorous Vulcan wrestling, and T’El’s parents would not ask questions, reluctant to suggest before the Ambassador and his wife that their Human daughter was not exactly understanding Surak’s precepts.

Michael held T’El’s hand for the first time in such a cave.

“Everything okay, Number One?” comes the echo of Philippa’s voice.

“Aye, Captain!”

The light before her grows stronger with each careful meter traveled until it looks like past the corner there is nothing but open sky.

Strange though, the color does not match that of the warm light outside.

Perhaps there is another cave above them or plants that filter the light. Her scanner does not indicate the presence of large living organisms in immediate proximity, so it must be something else.

She could go back, require further instructions from Philippa, but the light is so bright, so alive on the wall.

Her mouth is dry with anticipation.

_25%_

_15°C_

_19.82%_

She crawls past the corner, and her movements freeze.

That’s not the light of day.

Right before Michael, perhaps fifty centimeters from where she crouches, a swarm of lights is moving. Tiny luminous orbs hover in the air, diagonally flowing from one wall to the other across the passageway.

“Commander,” Philippa’s voice rings from afar. She must have heard her stop.

Michael wants to take a closer look, enraptured. She cannot understand what she is seeing, but how beautiful it looks.

“Philippa…”

She raises her scanner to the lights, initiating an analysis, and reaches carefully to her pockets to find anything on her that would let her sample one of the elements.

Dancing. Alive. Luminous.

They could be, oh, so many things. Michael’s mind is erupting with conjectures.

The scanner beeps, confused by the readings, and all the dots suddenly rush into the wall, disappearing into a crack.

Michael releases her breath, astounded. The rough feel of the ground against her fingers calls her back to reality.

There is nothing left but a dark passage before her, one that could not lead to the top, at least not before long. Her equipment would not permit her to explore further in complete darkness, even with a scanner. The blue tint of the light should have clued in Michael earlier. At worse it could have been fluorescent moss, but Michael had not expected the source of light to disappear entirely as it did.

What in the universe was that?

The darkness went from a breathing, hopeful dimness to pitch black.

Michael swallows dryly.

Ever since their arrival, they have known no proper night, either because their internal clock is not lined up to the 36-hour day, forcing them to sleep when they feel tired, or because the night on this world is filled with lightning. But here is complete obscurity, with just enough of a stream of air not to stifle her.

Pursuing would be unwise.

Michael takes a deep breath and maneuvers to retrieve her light from her belt.

She has a keen awareness of her situation: there is not enough space to reposition her body correctly.

Philippa calls her, voice steady. “Michael, talk to me.”

“There is no light anymore. It was—” She doesn’t know. _No_. Focus. “I cannot go further or turn. I will need to go backward.”

Even Starfleet’s shoulder lights should have been useless under the circumstances. She still needs her two hands to crawl out, especially on her knees. Silently pestering, Michael places the light between her teeth and begins shuffling backward.

As much as the beam coming out of her mouth manages to shed light on the road ahead, she cannot twist her head enough to properly follow the path. Right in front of her nose, only the rock rises, smelling of mold and earth. Her progression is even slower now.

She has room. She has air. She has above all, Philippa, maybe six meters away, back.

It is nothing.

What were those lights? Animal, machine? Stopping in the dark to check the results on her scanner would be unsound.

Perhaps it is mineral, even.

It isn’t good. She can feel herself starting to lose her concentration. The tightness of the burrow reminds her of the cabinet.

But there is nothing to distract her from her memories. No numbers, no sound. Just the wall and a sliver of light coming from the lamp, illuminating without much accuracy the low ceiling behind her. Treacherous, revealing and hiding too much of what she needs most.

She cannot see the way, only the walls. And with them, the closed door on Doctari Alpha. Her father’s scream. Her mother’s terrified eyes.

Michael shuts her eyes as to not see them. Not to see the wall.

She needs—

“Michael, focus on my voice.”

Philippa’s voice comes from closer than she expects, and Michael does the math: she could have stepped in the passage to find her, without proper equipment.

Michael takes one blind step backward.

“You can take your time. We are safe here. The sun is still far up outside and I can talk for as long as you need it.”

Under her fingers, the rock is cold to the touch, rough. The makeshift pads on her knees catch on the asperities, sometimes breaking a small patch with a dry sound. Her captain’s voice feels warm, liquid in contrast.

“I see you, Michael.”

It is a relief to hear her voice so close. Michael opens her eyes, expecting to find Philippa at her feet. Her captain waits at the opening, arms on the edge, her face obscured by hair.

Her eyes can see.

Michael takes a deep, healing breath, before resuming her progression. Her limbs drag one after the other, breath after breath, the last stretch traveled on steadier ground.

As she crawls out of the passage, feet first, she is struck by the brightness of the cavity and shields her eyes. Close, Philippa hovers around her, repeating “you’re okay, Number One.”

Her hand, ready to seize Michael by the biceps, stills in mid-air, near Michael’s shoulder. The gesture does not escape Michael in her hyper-focused state following the sensory desert of the cavity.

She questions Philippa silently but the other woman does not answer, allowing her hand to rake her hair back.

Instead of holding Michael as she generally does in such situations.

“I am unharmed,” Michael answers, with each word rebuilding her composure.

“Good,” Philippa simply says, impenetrable.

As her eyes accommodate to the light, Michael can read more and more on Philippa’s face, the familiar curve of her eyebrows and the shroud of frustration across her features.

Strange.

“There was something up there,” Michael comments, not knowing in what order to address everything she does not quite understand yet.

Michael rarely uses terms as imprecise as “something” unless to mock Saru or quote Connor, but the circumstances do not provide her with a satisfying alternative.

Philippa seems to notice the incongruity in her vocabulary, as she presses, tense: “ _Something_?”

“Lights? Although they did not appear to be light-producing. Small orbs reflecting the sparse light in the tunnel and floating perhaps.”

Philippa lowers her head to the entrance of the passage and directs their main light into it, squinting at the darkness for a while.

“Did they attack you?”

“They did not approach me and appeared to be crossing the tunnel, disappearing in a crack in the wall, I suspect, although I did not see.”

Before Philippa’s cool composure, before her own deceptive assumptions from earlier, Michael can feel the hint of shame making its way to her heart. She did not panic, but she let herself be overwhelmed by the sensations and memories. In many ways, it is worse. Is this really what Philippa would have done, dive headfirst into the unknown?

“Animal, vegetal or machine?” Philippa questions as they abandon the nook to head back to the main part of the cave.

“I cannot tell. The way they moved indicated a light inanimate carried by air, like pollen—“

Lightly, naturally, Philippa’s hand is on her shoulder, as it always is when the situation calls for it and Michael relaxes involuntarily into the touch. Philippa was nearby and ready to follow her. And now she is here, with her.

“Or petals,” Philippa muses out loud. “Not self-propelled then. Could it be part of the local flora?”

Michael doesn’t know. How utterly confusing.

The cave, with its well of light, large rocks and bare beds on the ground, welcomes them, unchanged.

As they sit on the blankets near their bag, Philippa’s hand leaves her shoulder, twisting a frustrating knot in Michael’s throat. She was alone and now she is not anymore, and it should be enough to content her heart. A warm, callous weight falls around her wrist, between the glove and the fabric of her sleeve. Philippa’s hand.

Michael’s eyes trail up to her face. Busy opening their depleted water containers, Philippa faces away from Michael, the calm angle of her eyebrow telling in its control. If Michael did not know her better, she would have believed her to be serene. Even her touch is light.

Seven years of collaboration come with the assurance Michael knows how to read her.

“I am okay, Philippa,” Michael whispers, seeking her friend’s eyes. “In truth.”

Philippa gazes back. Half of her hair has escaped the braid, her eyes crease in reassurance, and her lips quiver in search of a word. She peruses her face with interest before something switches behind her eyes. A tired smile stretches her lips, wide and generous and grateful. She must have been _afraid._ This is a show of vulnerability, a rare gift from Philippa, from her friend.

“I know,” Philippa says quietly.

The full weight of her attention almost distracts Michael from the dull soreness blooming in her knees and neck. They are back to square one, without signal, with dwindling resources.

Philippa has her fingers wrapped around her wrist still. The tangibility holds greater power in this instant than all the logic she can summon to calm her state.

 _Yes_ , _they are safe._

A sigh escapes Michael’s lips. “I cannot promise this will not happen again. We have to get that relay up the plateau.”

Philippa shakes her head in disbelief.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she bites back, grinning. “But next time, I go.”

“We go together. There is strength in number.”

Philippa’s hand leaves her in search of water, and Michael releases a sigh.

“But how do I get to save you if we don’t separate?”


	5. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wait is taking a toll on Philippa, both physically and emotionally, and the storm doesn't quiet her mind, even when it brings answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some angsty stream of consciousness in this chapter. But progress!
> 
> A big thank you to [nomisunrider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomisunrider/pseuds/nomisunrider)!

The sky is strange that night.

Pouring from the cave’s apertures, lightning reflects on the walls in distant, faded hues. Their intensity and distance fluctuate, nagging at Philippa’s focus.

Michael is fast asleep, exhausted from the day behind and her earlier encounter with the lights. Watching from the ground, legs folded and shoulders wrapped in her blanket, Philippa chases an explanation she cannot provide without Michael’s expertise.

The rest of the day after the incident unfurled slowly, in suspension, as if they never escaped the state of torpor they landed in. The exhaustion, dwindling supplies, the physical discomfort; Philippa has been in too many similar hurdles not to know this is the moment things get tricky, emotional. The tunnel was the first mistake in a series of many to come and whose effects will amass until Philippa fails.

_Come on._

Until they escape from this world.

A shudder runs through her body, tight with soreness. Her perception right now is not exactly to be trusted, but she still has her experience and brain, even a plan.

Even if the plan is only to work until they see a way out.

By her side, Michael lies on the ground, her chest rising and falling in slumber, dead to the world. The night still cloaks them for a few hours, but, with the natural luminosity and her own eyes growing accustomed, Michael’s delicate features appear etched in the warm dullness of the dark. Her eyebrows knit, her lips part breathlessly, and Philippa wonders if Michael is dreaming of the infinite dunes surrounding them or if she is already escaping this place.

The question is legitimate. With every hour, their fate grows more uncertain, yet Michael shows unwavering confidence in their circumstances and their ability to overcome them.

Lightning strikes. The expected rumble overlays the sound of the wind outside, twelve seconds after, and a series of intense flashes echoes the first fulguration. Philippa has so very little in hand to get a grasp on this world the way Michael does. It frustrates her to no end.

Michael needs rest, deserves it, more than Philippa does.

Earlier, they were waiting for the recess that would allow them to visit the well and replenish their water supplies, if only for a day or two. They tasked themselves with mindless necessities; refining the maps using information from the two previous days, gathering twigs and rocks for a humble fire in their abode, improvising straps for makeshift frontal lights with strips of cloth.

And Michael, who needs a logical explanation for everything —Michael was willing to play this game of waiting without a plan.

She checked on the tunnel only twice during their long watch. No sign of the lights. She went back to finding dried plants, without a frown, even with a quip.

Philippa was not so much worried about what could be endogenous light bugs as she was about the prolonged silence of the Crepusculans above them. There was no doubt Michael shared her concern: the path to the top she approved will above all optimize their visibility to others when they will hike to the plateaus tomorrow.

Their neighbors are terrified of them, and Michael is likely bracing herself for a difficult first contact.

Not _bracing_. Michael remains prepared for everything, contrary to her.

The lightning rains in saccade now, and the subsequent rumble booms almost pitifully in comparison. The desert must be on fire.

_Not good._

Philippa tugs the blanket tighter around her chest and squeezes her eyes shut, trying to find her focus beyond the range of discomfort across her body.

Then, very little in Michael’s behavior suggested that her calamitous caving expedition earlier affected her. Despite the reassurance a conversation would have brought to Philippa, the comfort it could have provided Michael with, Philippa did not press her. Michael’s evident panic when the young woman emerged from the tunnel was a request in itself. Philippa made do with Michael’s dignity and stubborn reserve years ago, in truth admires them greatly in a future Starfleet Captain, even if, every so often, they worry her.

Michael has her stories, as Philippa has hers, some of them imprinted in her flesh more painfully than others. Philippa understood. Michael’s implicit wish not to share will be respected.

Or perhaps Philippa needs the respite to process as well.

The urge to take Michael in her arms then had been sincere, expected, like Michael grasping at her after they escaped drowning near Tombelaine a few years ago. Natural impulses resulting from intense fear, the brush of death, the call of life suddenly from the skin of the alive. Philippa was familiar with them all.

But Philippa could not this time. Paralyzed, as if the gesture often repeated, offered in comfort and friendship, had turned into something of a dead-end.

Lights.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five seconds.

And Philippa counts, but no sound comes this time. Her jaw works angrily, lighting a dull ache at her temple, burning behind her eyes. She gets up to pace the cave.

It’s funny. Philippa worked so hard to get Michael to a spot where she didn’t have to worry about Michael, and now that it is within reach she fails to provide comfort to Michael when she needs it. It was just a hug, a supportive hand on her shoulder, and it would have meant everything to someone stepping out of a panic attack.

Subdued and attuned to Michael’s incredible self-control, but it was a panic attack.

Philippa corrected her answer afterward, but not quickly enough for a friend.

A _friend._

Here lies the issue: in trying to prepare Michael for captaincy, Philippa outgrew a certain intimacy between them, earned over years and shared experiences. They are not simply friends and colleagues, mentor and protégée, not anymore; Michael is to become a captain in her own right. With her new status comes deference, especially from Philippa. Surely this premise stopped Philippa’s display of affection.

Surely.

Michael’s face is carved in her mind. Not the relaxed, faraway sketch partially hidden by the cover a meter from her on the ground, but the eager, determined mask a second before they pulled up their scarf and stepped into the chaotic heat of the storm this afternoon.

Chin proud and eyebrows forthright, hands behind her back, stance prepared despite the tiredness she must feel as acutely as Philippa. For some reason, her cream undershirt is still unspoiled after her earlier scrambling in the dark, and Philippa wonders if she will live to see the day Michael Burnham is caught off-guard, unable to weather the storm.

Between lightning, a creature calls in the night, unknown to Philippa, but Michael cannot provide her with an answer for now. Philippa closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

There, no light.

Little by little, the night suffuses her senses, from the familiar scent of soil to the fresh brush of the air on her cheeks. Michael’s body at her feet radiates heat, scalding hot in comparison with the tepid stone.

_Even here, in the chaos and uncertainty of a lost path, she shines, bright as a star._

And later, in the aggravating dust and solid heat, as they were rushing to the well to take advantage of more clement weather conditions before the nightfall, Michael had been relentless. Feeling the effects of the long day on her body, Philippa had followed blearily, blindly, setting a cadence not to lose focus in the moving architecture of dust they crossed.

The compulsory silence of their walk was even more trying than the prospect of another frugal meal in the dark, another watchful night without stars, another long trek in the heat to reach the top tomorrow and, who knows, another unanswered call.

When did she grow so dependent on Michael’s voice and the strength it brings?

The natural draft of the cave caresses Philippa’s cheek and when her fingers reach the skin, Philippa finds dust. Mechanically, she wipes off her face with the back of her hand. Her eyes open. One, two strikes, and the sand looks like glitters on her skin. The lightning never stops, but Michael’s reclined form does not stir.

Philippa has not been able to find proper sleep for three nights.

She doesn’t like aridness, she doesn’t like their lack of preparation, she doesn’t like the _Shenzhou_ ’s silence.

There was a time Philippa would have found such hurdles invigorating, Romanesque to the extreme. Not now. Perhaps she is too old for this, perhaps she grew too comfortable in her chair, removed from danger and individuals. For the past months, she hasn’t found relief in solitude anymore, only fatigue.

But for the past months, Philippa also has been pushing Michael away.

Did Michael even notice? Untroubled, her voice fills her solitude, drives her will, keeps her walking, as usual. Until Michael sleeps, and Philippa is left with her own, thunderous thoughts.

Discipline will get Philippa out of this, as it always does, carrying her body where her mind can’t. Discipline and deceit. At least, she could be fooling Michael long enough to escape the planet, to send her off.

The light cracks and falls in quick succession, incomprehensible, and Philippa gives up entirely. She doesn’t know which of her head or her muscles is bothering her the most. Flat on her back, eyes on the uneven ceiling, blank as a screen, she pulls the blanket up to her chin. It’s too rigid to warp around her properly, and she has to tuck it under herself to keep it.

The storm rages on outside, and Michael faces her again, starkly lit, defined and immutable as the first day.

Such tranquility across her features, when Philippa _knows_ a scar must have been reopened today in the dark.

The light stretches outside, explodes in a silent blast, then stutters at length twice.

Her hand almost extends to grasp her shoulder, to touch her cheek, so intense is the need to anchor herself, to ensure Michael is at least safe, for now. After the tunnel, Philippa received in her arms Michael stiff as wood. They have survived in enough perils for Philippa to know —no, to _believe_ in their capacity to support one another. Michael was a remarkable First Officer, an even greater friend.

And Philippa flinched.

Three sections of intense luminosity, a brief flash of lightning and a distant crash. Do inhabitants of this planet know the comfort of darkness?

None of their usual safety nets are in place. And for a minute Philippa was petrified by what could have happened, so close, and what could happen, self-denied. Michael is not just a _friend_ anymore, is she? She will leave, as planned. Philippa will become a former mentor and absent friend. The possibility of losing Michael, now, appears very real before her, enormous, inescapable, not a _plan_ she has been working on for a year, but a condemnation.

No exit from the feelings that assailed her suddenly existed, so she drew away.

Typical.

Above all, Philippa doesn’t like the way she projects herself so far ahead, in the future, when they are safe. And _separate_.

The cave lights up one, two, three times, and Philippa flings an arm over her eyes.

When she offered Michael her own ship, it was for the young woman’s career as much as it was for her own peace of mind. She needs a respite from a relationship that has become inconvenient, to the point of distraction, and such a situation is clear proof her instincts have been right.

Michael is beginning to be indispensable to her, as a colleague and as a _friend_ , and worst of all, the Vulcan-raised woman appears to enjoy the comfort this world order brings. A mind, a heart like hers should not be trapped in the comfort or allegiance of the First Officer position.

_Allegiance._

They aren’t bonded by anything but their common experience and camaraderie, their _career_. It is high time Michael flies on her own.

With her eyes closed, the storm seems somewhat less intense. The crackle of lightning only breaks the windy background at intervals, extended enough for Philippa to think, properly.

To her credit, Philippa hasn’t been letting _this_ happen: she has been working toward a recalibration of their relationship for months now, ever since that night on Pulau Langkawi. She’s never had issues with her role as crew’s mentor, even their substitute family if needed, but Michael has stopped fitting into the role of protégée for quite some time now. The direction in which their relationship has been veering is a hindrance to Philippa.

Except—

And Philippa’s limb drops from her face, numb above her head. The grain of the stone chafes the skin of her forearm, unexpectedly stimulating.

She was wrong.

Philippa has not been pushing Michael away because she is about to move on to a higher rank, equal to Philippa’s; the privilege has been implicitly granted ages ago.

Philippa pushed Michael away to protect _herself_.

They are feeling more and more like friends on a journey, instead of the Captain and First Officer of a science ship. It _feels_ nice. But duty shouldn’t _feel_ like anything.

Her duty was to teach Michael. And there is little that Philippa can teach Michael at this point. Conceivably, the absence of such a barrier between them allows for more from Michael’s point of view. She is too much of an explorer to back off without trying to define that “more” and every glance becomes charged with questions while Philippa’s time with her wastes away in attempts at preserving an appearance.

A _status quo_ — Philippa needs this barrier. So Philippa pushed her away. She had to.

Too much is at stake. Michael is close to becoming Captain, close to…

Far from Philippa.

Being stuck here means witnessing this machine, their trust and Michael’s ascension, ever stuttering on the verge of take-off. But once Michael leaves…

Her mind is tired of preparing her heart to say goodbye to Michael, their seven years of friendship stamped and sealed for the record, and barely decipherable to herself. She cherishes Michael, and Michael has to break out of this affection, to—

Philippa is so tired.

Two blasts illuminate the cave, uneven in colors, followed by a longer flash of light carrying the noise from the first lightning. If the storm didn’t tear on her nerves as it does, its pattern would almost appear choreographed, coded.

_Wait._

Philippa sits up on the floor, eyes wide.

There _is_ a pattern in the lightning strike, but not—

Her hands spring to her ears, blocking out the sound from the storm. A distinctly long flash of light adorns the walls, and Philippa starts counting.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, and another long flash. One silence. A short flare. One silence. Long. One. Short.

Oh, this is old. Very old. A half-empty amphitheater in the early hours of the day away. A teacher, barely awake, gesticulates in her mind before a widescreen showing a series of dots and dashes. History of Ancient Transmissions, from the brief period when Philippa considered getting into communication. 19th century, Earth.

Philippa scuttles on her knees and lightly shakes Michael by the shoulder.

“Michael,” she calls, voice as poised as possible when excitement is straining her insides.

Michael’s eyes snap open, but there is no trace of panic here, only curiosity, even now. She swings her torso and bends her knees into a sitting position with such purpose and grace that Philippa momentarily forgets where they are and how urgent the times.

“Captain?”

Shaking herself, Philippa stretches toward the bag containing their modest supplies and extracts the scanner.

“Something is off with the lightning. Count the lights only.”

A deep frown disturbs Michael’s equanimity, although her hands take hold of the device on their own. Sighing, Philippa presses her palms on Michael’s ears. Michael squints, baffled, until her eyes bulge out in surprise.

“Morse Code?” she gasps, leaning into Philippa as if sharing a discovery. This would almost be exhilarating if time wasn’t so short. There is no telling for how long the message has been transmitting. “This is ancient.”

“If it’s Saru, we should be thankful he did not send pigeons. I haven’t used it in ages. Can you take notes?”

Michael clutches the scanner, nodding her approval.

On a closer look, the color is unlike anything they’ve seen in the sky before, it’s deadly cold, artificial, like a blanket of whiteness spreading across the sand in suspension. No sound accompanies it either. With the luminosity by day, they probably wouldn’t have been able to distinguish the light pulses from the occasional lightning, but in the cover of the night the evidence of the signal stands out, even in the storm.

At the cave entrance, barely sheltered from the turmoil of sand and twigs, they work frenetically, counting, recording, trying to isolate the naturally occurring strikes from the now obvious light pulses. That Philippa missed them for so long is frankly humiliating, but now that Michael is bustling around her, asking her to repeat the last section or to hold her in place while she tries to take a glimpse outside — _now_ , Philippa does not feel exhaustion or confusion. Hope is painted on Michael’s features, in her dark, intelligent eyes, in her soft, nimble grip.

Philippa feels awake.

“Do you want to talk about your cancellation of the seminar on old Earth technology the senior officers applied to because you deemed its application _unusable_?”

“Deride me now, Number One, but I stand by my ruling. Januzzi learning in-depth about semaphores would have doomed us all.”

Michael laughs nervously. “Far from me the idea of questioning the line of command, but Lieutenant Januzzi learned it regardless of your orders and only refrained from using his knowledge to prank Saru at my behest.”

Philippa manages to crack a poor smile, but warm enough to incite a frank answer on Michael’s face. “I am eternally grateful, Commander.”

On the rock face where they admired a sunset, just a day before, they read a message from home, written in lights.

_Short. Short. Long._

_Long._

They have reached the section they’ve already transcribed.

Holding their breath, they sit back against the wall, not even bothering to crawl back inside, and study the screen avidly, calling back to their respective classes on code.

Philippa’s heart deflates in her chest, punctured.

Minus two misspells, unmistakable artifacts from natural lightning, the message reads clear as day before they can even write down the translation.

_SHEN. YOYO. Supplies to come. Stay put. No time frame. End._

The blow is vicious, and in the moment Philippa senses a familiar, disgusting pressure at the back of her throat.

_You’re on your own._

Tears, somewhere, down her heart, threatening to swell. Around her forearm, Michael’s hand is also clutching like a vice, and Philippa remembers this is not the end of the world.

Michael’s voice rings white, thin to her ears. “The significance of such a message can vary greatly.”

Phillippa gathers the strength to raise her eyes to Michael’s face. Eyes shut off, brow twitching and lips pressed. Collected, her Number One shows a terrifying countenance, closed off, panicked. This time Philippa does not hesitate.

Her hand finds the curve of Michael’s shoulder and holds, tightly, but she senses Michael’s body going limp with exhaustion and dejection. Without the excitement from the message evaporated, they are left with no equipment, no prospect of rescue, no help from the Crepusculans, and, for now, very little sleep.

Bile rises in her chest, more dangerous than tears of overexertion.

“They are _leaving_ ,” Philippa states curtly.

“More likely to get help. _Shenzhou_ is not equipped for low atmospheric missions. They cannot risk sending more people.”

Michael’s words barely reach her so low is her whisper. She doesn’t quite believe what is happening either.

_No time frame._

Philippa knows what it means. Essay pilots can stay stranded on distant worlds for years before the technology needed to get them back is developed. Lost ships have started civilizations in certain corners of the cosmos. Michael doesn’t have time to live a life in the desert. And Philippa… This isn’t an adventure anymore.

_What is the plan now?_

There is no one else if the ship leaves. They will be effectively held prisoners here.

“I thought I taught them better than this.” Her tone is clipped, biting, and she is aware Michael, through her numbness, stares aghast at her coolness. “We _don’t_ leave people behind. I am disappointed.”

_Why?_

It is not Saru’s fault, but hers alone. They did not come back on time.

Her jaw clenches, and she takes a deep inhale through her nose. Her anger is of no use, but it does feel damn liberating. Philippa has been left behind so many times, because someone had to stay behind, and the dread and the loneliness never got easier with age. Never.

And to put Michael in such a situation, especially, after everything she went through, all the work she put up. Not the Human values Philippa promised herself she would introduce to her seven years ago on the bridge of the _Shenzhou._  

She is seething now, or as close as she can in her state of exhaustion. “What a waste of energy. Only to send us a _confirmation_ of our fate. And reckless at that. Commander Saru _will_ hear me the minute I’m back up there. If we were at war, the entire galaxy would know our position. Light pulses…” Her lip curls involuntarily. “It’s like lighting a beacon in the—“

Michael’s palms glide across her arms and press over her hands, demanding her attention. In the bizarre luminosity of the entrance, Michael’s eyes reflect a furious light and intensely watch Philippa, trying to read, to reach her.

“ _Philippa_.” More than her expression, it’s the way Michael says her name that Philippa finds arresting. A commanding, raw inflection that she cannot simply decompose in displeasure and apprehension. “We are not at war. Commander Saru most likely used the means he deemed most likely to reach us. Light pulses do not require an aim and can be repeated for hours. His was a sensible decision, even if it wasn’t the most appropriate given this world’s status.”

The corners of her lip twitch upward, tentative.

“Not unlike the time you used sonic waves to reach the ship on the ocean planet.”

In her eyes, Philippa can only read… well, everything. Trust, uncertainty, attention, strength, and currently, above everything else, a certain familiarity in her frustration. The fact that Philippa can interpret her in such details tells of Philippa’s inability to disentangle herself from Michael, but also of the continuity in their life. Philippa hates being carried by events, but Michael follows.

This is a challenge, that they will carry out together, promotions be damned, for now.

Anger and tiredness are still fighting inside her chest, but something else, brighter, is pulling her outside of herself, prompted by Michael’s concerned gaze, the weight of her hands on hers, the incongruity of her upturned fringe that Philippa is only noticing now. She turns her palms up, pushing against Michael’s, and clasps her wrists.

Philippa doesn’t know what it is supposed to mean to her, but Michael blinks and sighs with satisfaction.

With a careful nod, Philippa starts in a warmer tone, “We will go for food in the morning, secure our location for a longer stay, reach for the Crepusculans and we will—”

“We will, Captain. We will.”

Michael sounds _grateful_ and she looks radiant with expectancy. Philippa could stare confusedly back at her if she wasn’t so busy reveling in the beauty of the expression on her face. How can hope inhabit her with such constancy, such grace? How can she share it with _her_?

Her lips press together, embarrassed. “I am sorry for losing my temper.”

“You barely did, Philippa. You underestimate greatly your ability to stifle your stronger emotions. But you show severe signs of sleep deprivation.”

What she owes to Michael is immeasurable.

“You are right. We should _probably_ sleep.” Michael raises a highbrow at the word, stoic, but her hand in Philippa’s is trembling. Philippa tugs her to her feet. “There is nothing left to do. Come on.”

Without a look at the storm outside, they retreat into the darkness of the cave. When Philippa releases Michael’s hand to help herself up after the low passage of the tunnel, the absence tugs at her heart.

_What will happen to us?_

What always happens when she gets lost: they survive, they escape.


	6. By contradiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the _Shenzhou_ 's fateful message, Philippa is getting used to what might be their new life and Michael solves the problem of Philippa's bad mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last week got a little busy and intense, preventing me to sit down and edit this chapter on time, but we're back on original schedule. Thank you for your patience!
> 
> More trekking in the desert, but things are getting cosy.

Michael’s life can be divided into periods of time spent attempting to solve problems: staying with Sarek and his family, remembering a time before, being a Human on Vulcan, understanding the _Shenzhou_ and its people.

Currently, four enigmas are keeping her mind busy. It has been four days since the ship left the message, five since the blue lights, a week without contact with the Crepusculans and… Michael cannot provide an accurate timetable for Philippa’s change. If Michael would usually question the issue at hand on her own, something compels her to seek Philippa this time.

“I have been formulating hypotheses as to why the _Shenzhou_ left, Captain,” Michael asks gingerly as she breaks her morning meditation.

Philippa looks up from the strands of dried plant fibers she is twisting into a rope, longer than the one they have been using.

“Anything conclusive?”

Michael crosses her hands in her lap, satisfied to find Philippa willing to join her reflections. It has helped over the past days when her thoughts start blending together. Her mind strives on stimulation, and life as a castaway, if perilous, is monotonous, made of wait and tinkering. From fire to pillows, everything needs to be assembled.

“An order to provide help in a nearby emergency, such as an evacuation on Nunca V, is most likely. The scientific community has been watching closely its main sun’s decay for centuries. Then, technical failure due to the ship’s age and the harshness of the weather is worth considering.”

“I thought so, but it remains speculation.” Philippa’s tone is blank, unreadable. When she rubs a spot on her palm, probably sore from her work, Michael can hear the gears of her mind working. “Do you have _speculations_ on our neighborly climbers and their refusal to establish contact?

Michael bows her head, gathering her thoughts before speaking. She does not consider this a pressing question, so scant is the data on them and so complex is the geometry of first contacts. Not a quandary, just evidence that remains hidden for now. But it does worry Philippa.

“Without a prior contact and material pertaining to this civilization,” Michael replies in an even voice, weighing her words, “it is unwise to speculate on the nature of the barrier existing between us.”

Philippa blows across the section of rope just finished and arches an eyebrow, questioning. “But you have an inkling.”

“They are scared of us, but their behavior is still consistent with many pre-warp civilizations.”

There is no need to elaborate, although Michael knows Philippa would want her to talk about threats and options. Philippa needs a plan of action, but alien civilizations do not operate according to a framework understandable as quickly as Philippa desires it. Her diplomacy is of no use, melting trinket in need of reshaping. Unsoundly, Michael is comfortable with letting the Crepusculans be a faraway conjecture for now, like viewing bays shining in the darkness of space and opening on transient strange lives.

There will come a time to know them, but now…

Philippa heaves a sigh and waves her hand, before bowing over her work again.

Despite the setback of their last communication, nothing has changed in their situation. They are still stranded, still on hold, now with the knowledge that no one is coming before a while. The ship was the nearest to the planet by a hundred and two light-years, hence their cursory drop before they headed to the damaged interstellar relay on the edge of Federation space.

Nothing changed, but the message altered their conduct; they stopped wasting time trying to find a way to the plateaus. Instead, their energy for the past days has been employed in gathering food, in securing their shelter and looking for the _Shenzhou_ ’s package. If the supplies dropped were not shattered on impact, Michael and Philippa will find them, provided they cover enough ground around the area.

The past few days have shown that the surrounding environment can sustain them. Michael monitored Philippa closely enough to watch her body and breathing adapt to the specific atmospheric and temperature conditions of the planet. Her weariness has happily started receding. For herself, Michael suspects a return to a planet not dissimilar to Vulcan has boosted her immune system. The speed of their walk has improved while the storm has not receded in intensity. Their chances of maintaining good health increase every day with each plant that Michael finds to be rich, here in proteins, there in minerals.

Provided they observe common sense and discipline in this new habitat, the stay might do them as much good as a stay on a leisure planet.

But Philippa doesn’t share her assurance, or rather if she does, her enthusiasm is a far cry from that of the very first day. The gap between Michael’s peace of mind and Philippa’s silence lies open between them. When Philippa gets up to step outside for a moment, the hand brushing Michael’s shoulder feels almost remorseful.

By the hour on the tricorder, their daily chores are to be started. While collecting their clothes and protective gears, Michael sneaks a look into the tunnel of the lights, scanner in hand, and lets out a disappointed huff when only the dark gazes back, again. Her inspections never provide anything other than the confounding readings: spores, photon and something else.

The link between the three remains elusive.

“What are you exactly?” she whispers to herself, hurrying out of the alcove into the main cave when she spots Philippa’s familiar shuffle.

Michael is betting on the usual late morning recess to pick up food this morning, but the weather has been growing worse over the past night, even more so than what the extrapolated patterns would suggest. They are not at the mercy of the elements still, having learned to follow the storm’s rhythm, and expeditions under two hours outside the pass remain safe for trekkers with their experience.

Logic dictates that they divide the work to harvest with more efficiency plants and roots that could meet their needs, yet the moment Michael mentions it Philippa categorically refuses.

“Why? I will go no further than the area we have already gone through,” Michael argues.

“And until you cannot give me an assessment of the effects the dust has on our communicators, even at short range, we are not separating, _Michael_.”

Philippa plants her feet in front of Michael and works her jaws, arms crossed on her chest. The Starfleet light top paired with the cream hiking pants without her long hood makes her pose less threatening than she intends it to be —they look like they are perpetually after hours—, and the uncertain frown on her face is proof that she knows.

“Philippa… We can gather a vast selection of energy sources if we go separately, as well as increase our chances to find the _Shenzhou_ ’s supplies.”

“And if you fall while reaching for a high root, not an unlikely outcome given the unpredictability of the winds in the canyon, what happens? I am _not_ leaving you alone.”

Philippa’s lips form a thin, stubborn line, and Michael senses the argument is won. A wave of guilt washes over her mind as she takes note of how quickly the fright in the tunnel has been filed away for Michael. But not Philippa.

On Philippa’s face, the lines from the incident are still readable, engraved. If Michael wishes she could deny the moment of weakness that led her to this point, she does not regret the quiet moments afterward, spent in silence and precious intimacy.

Her head against Philippa’s shoulder, lighter than it had been in months —the silly jokes Philippa made afterward, uttered in a steady voice, but oh, just so —even her attempt, subtle, uncertain, at asking _why_ , _Michael?_ It was wonder more than shame that prevented Michael to answer in the moment.

Michael can only yield. “Noted, Captain. We shall fetch water first.”

It is not their usual time to get water. Michael ruled that they should make careful use of their supply, but Philippa’s behavior hints at certain tiredness, emotional in nature, and Michael cannot help feeling concern over how such imbalance may affect their prospects of survival and, worse, their relationship in this isolated environment.

She owes her this space.

While Michael finishes tying the rope around their waist, Philippa briefly fiddles with the hem of her scarf and checks the remaining water in her bottle with a twitch of the eyes, so tenuous Michael could have missed it had she not been looking for it. Barely a word is spoken as they secure the goggles and wrap their head in cloth.

How much of Philippa’s frustration is directed at the inclemency of the weather and their new situation?

Frustration has no room in Michael’s mind especially as the conditions resemble those of her home too much to prompt discomfort. The unique opportunity to study a new environment does not exactly curb her enthusiasm. Philippa’s temperament verges on insulting under the circumstances.

But Philippa is also stronger than this display suggests.

Michael has witnessed her in far less comfortable situations over the past seven years, from afar and up close, yet her resilience never failed to shine through.

When they step out of the cave, the winds above their heads are furious and beautiful. A shiver runs down Michael’s spine.

Despite the better visibility and rope to aid their progression, the trip to the well is arduous, far more than it appeared to be when they retreated into the cliffs a week ago. The repetition of the task, day after day, has not made the journey easier yet. Unrelenting, the sand moves as if alive under their feet and the dust cloud around them shines an angry, golden light on their path. Philippa’s protracted economy of words does not bring relief.

If they trusted their scanners and temporary shelters enough not to set strict watches at night, they cannot rely on them with the disturbances in the storm to find their way, so they have to go on sight. The vast expanse of bareness surrounds them once they leave the protection of the pass and never ends, only randomly clearing to show a peak in the distance or the top of the well.

“We’re here,” Philippa’s voice seems far away.

The pump still standing was nothing short of a miracle but the wind in this particular spot has drastically fallen, leaving them in a static, impossible eye of the storm.

Like quiet waters, a zone of lesser turbulence. This might be one of the most fascinating storms Michael has ever been caught into.

From the egg sacs holding in place to the apt location of the well, the Crepusculans show every sign of a profound understanding of the wind flows. To meet with them, communicate would be a rare privilege.

For now, she is content with being implicitly allowed to use the well.

Michael draws water while Philippa carefully fills their individual containers, emergency supply and the receptacles from Michael’s satchel they could repurpose —a tricorder case, sample boxes. It is not enough, but along with the liquid extracted from the cacti they pick up, they reasoned one trip every day should sustain them, particularly if they attempt to cook or wash.  

Still, nothing tastes as good as water fresh from the well. By the time they come back to the cave, the ambient temperature warms their supply, and Michael feels like they are drinking insipid tea all day long.

Eager, the water flows into Michael’s mouth and leaves a clean, stark feeling on her tongue. Freshwater will do that, and the open sky, or as open as a storm can let it be, after a lengthy stay under the mountain.

With a tug on her sleeve, Philippa wordlessly invites her to secure the containers before they head back to the pass.

As they readjust their attire to dive back into the storm, Philippa’s mouth spasms briefly, the detail only caught by Michael thanks to the wind lifting her scarf.

She is angry, against herself, and silent, for Michael’s sake. This is her form of meditation, however inaccessible to Michael, and Michael learned to respect it over the years.

As Philippa is leading them this time, Michael’s attention is drawn to the sky, the sand dancing around them and the strange shapes she discerns in the monotonous landscapes. She enjoys storms, Vulcan’s particularly. This one is _new_ , like all new tempests, hurricanes and fogs she encountered over the last few years, and she savors its specificities, the numbers’ dance on the screen, the songs played in the cloth.

 _Stars_ , how she loves this.

Losing the mobility granted by the First Officer’s position displeases her. In practice, captains frequently break with the rules and vacate their seats to join on away missions, as Philippa did just now. The thought of remaining confined to the chair, isolated from peoples, new worlds, her very field of expertise, elicits a certain apprehension. Puerile and selfish, as she aspires to take the chair at some point, to share her knowledge and forge her own path in the stars, yet a singular knot of disquiet remains at the pit of her stomach. Perhaps, this is what she dreads the most.

Well, _almost_.

When Michael can distinguish the sound of their footsteps again, the imposing walls of the cliffs surround them. Michael’s hand on the rope is grazing Philippa’s, and Michael did not feel it happening. Real, strong beyond belief, close.

It does not last. In an instant, Philippa’s fingers grab her sleeve and jolt her away from the path before Michael can hear Philippa’s warning.

“Watch out!”.

The shrub comes crashing just a meter behind the spot where they stood, clumps of rock and sand still clinging to its long roots. At the edge of her visibility, up in the cloud, Michael can make out a darker patch where the rock was damaged. Above, fading in the dust, shadows peer over the cliff, their whispers indistinct.

There are protocols in place to establish first contact with a species. None of them include screaming _talk to me_ at the sky.

Michael sighs with resignation and approaches the dislodged shrug on the ground, subject of Philippa’s careful examination.

“Did you see them?” Michael asks as she kneels to clean the roots —it may be comestible, otherwise it will go into the stack of fire twigs.

“Just a blur. I am not even sure it is them.” Philippa is already disentangling the rocks and shakes her head. “I can do that, Number One, please, let me. Could they have dropped it on purpose?”

Standing up, Michael looks woefully at the passage full of vegetal debris dancing around in the wind.

“It is more likely that the wind had been tearing at the plant for a long time and it ceded. Even if they had thrown it, why? It would not have harmed us severely. To put us to the test, possibly? Our physiognomy must be baffling to them, and most species will poke at what they do not understand.”

Scowling, Philippa joins her where Michael stands, cleaned shrub in hand.

“I’d rather they poke at us with actual sticks instead of stones,” she jests, but there is little lightness in her bearing. Hidden but present in her voice, the laughing curve of her lips does not reach her eyes. “I don’t think they like us.”

“ _Whatever_ gives you the idea, Captain?”

Michael’s tone, artfully modulated for effect, draws Philippa’s attention. An expectant glance meets Michael’s eyes before the familiar impishness kicks in, even reluctant: “Well, I never expected them to open their homes to us, but surely they won’t let us be buried alive under shrubberies and pebbles.”

A bit morbid, Michael muses, but an excellent premise for a quip.

“I promise that if you should perish first,” Michael tartly retorts, “I would avenge your passing in the manner of the great Terran epics of old, with Coryphaeus singing of shrubberies, pebbles and phaser carvings.”

Despite the scarf and goggles obscuring her features, the look of disbelief on Philippa is unmistakable and hangs there for a satisfying eternity before laughter bursts out of her chest, fresh and reviving. Michael contains her exhalation of gratitude as not to squander a second of the joyful demonstration. She has missed this side of Philippa, the woman whose smile is quick to bloom and illuminate a room.

Gradually, Philippa’s merriness dies down, and Philippa leans onto her knees, head shaking.

“This was really not how I expected you to receive the news of a possible promotion.” Her words ring like an apology.

Michael’s eyebrows shoot up.

_This was what was troubling her so._

“Is that so important right now?” she asks softly, despite the wind.

Philippa’s tired, equally soft answer still finds her, “Yes. For me, it is.”

Confessions given in anger or after laughter are generally a true confession in Philippa’s mouth. Her brows are knitted, her eyes closed, and her arms stretch toward the sky as a long intake of breath draws past her lips. She seems relieved.

Michael averts her gaze.

Knowing where she is going next, marching on, is a source of great pride, and Michael found a kin spirit in Philippa. While Michael never kept hidden her wish to make it to the Captain’s chair, she considers the job done day after day on the ship far more important than her ambition. The drive to discover was pushing her forward, _them_ forward.

For a while, Michael and Philippa were going in the same direction together. The past few months have proved this era has come to an end.

It is time she asks the right question, instead of turning the problem over in her head until she exhausts it. Asking it now, when she feels Philippa’s weariness, might be taking advantage of the situation, but it would mean one less mystery to solve, and she trusts Philippa to help her.

“Why would _my_ promotion affect you?”

Her hands become busy with the inspection of the meager twigs along the wall, where their next meal could be waiting.

“I…” Philippa hesitates, and Michael almost turns her head, worried. Philippa falters so rarely. “I approached High Command because I wanted you to be leading the way on your own, and this is the exact opposite. This was supposed to be the start of a new life, a new path for you. This goes against my plans. We could have been celebrating right now.”

Perhaps not. It is not delusion to believe Anderson’s bone with Philippa extends to her. Or perhaps Michael is buying herself time because she does not resent their situation.

Michael pulls on several stems, trying them. Dry as sand, and as coarse. They snap.

“Am I not welcome on the _Shenzhou_ anymore, Captain?”

She means _by her side_ , but the ambiguousness is not something she needs brought to the table after Philippa’s retreat these past months. She needs a fix for the immediacy of their situation, the urgency of Philippa’s ache, not hers, lingering, nebulous, a defect of the heart if she cannot find her answer.

“Well, clearly, currently, you’re not even on the ship, are you?” Philippa retorts with a cutting edge to her sarcasm. In the breath following, Michael can hear her eyes shut. “Sorry, you are welcome, Michael, treasured even, on the _Shenzhou._ But it’s not your place anymore.”

Michael walks further down the pass, following the traces of humidity she can pick here and there on the scanner.

Philippa is behind, surely, as always.

 _My gratefulness is resent_.

Michael resents Philippa for not finding the same relief she does in the delay of their rescue. For approximately five months now Philippa has been testing the boundaries of their friendship in ways Michael could not understand until Philippa talked about giving her a ship.

It was only logical.

She was assessing Michael’s independence, trying to gauge if her leadership skills were operational outside of the realm of their partnership. Michael would have done the same to try her own protégée Jira, but the exercise proved unpleasant enacted by Philippa. It felt like _rejection._

Rejection from what? Michael could not tell. Friendship? Trust? Closeness?

Philippa provided a justification: Michael is to become a captain and needs to rely more on herself.

But relying on herself is all Michael has ever known. _Philippa_ having her back has been the real challenge, has helped her mature, has cultivated her strength: Michael is a better Starfleet officer for it and certainly a better candidate for the captaincy. Simply, rationally, she wants her strength back, her companion from before whatever changed.

However selfish the statement, their drawback saves Michael from Philippa’s efforts to push her wherever she feels Michael belongs.

“I do not mind being in danger with you here, Captain,” she calls out, hoping her friend is in ear-shot. “Or on the _Shenzhou_ , even if I am not captain yet. I am glad.”

Stooping, she digs around a thin scaled burgundy rod, two inches off the ground. The network of roots there seems promising. When she presses the thicker parts, a bluish juice seeps out, coloring her fingers and distilling a bland smell.

“Even, danger often comes with the opportunity to study in detail beautiful phenomena,” she continues, and Philippa finally squats beside her, her hands joining her in the shallow hole to investigate. “This is such an opportunity, and I am enjoying what my expertise, our combined experience, is allowing me to explore on this planet. I do not see this as a waste of time.”

“You would say that, but your expertise would be better employed in space.”

Michael presses her lips together. If fear for the future overpowers Philippa’s common sense, Michael has no certitude to give her, but she has this bond that carried her until here. Expressing to others how much they mean to her is an exercise rooted in fear of one’s own mortality, but Michael struggles to find such a fear in her heart, only a drive to talk, to _release_ something complete and pure inside her. It is logical to do so.

“Perhaps, but I would not be spending as much time with you as I am right now. I _enjoy_ it a great deal, knowing what the future holds for us.”

“What does it hold?” Philippa’s voice rings both amused and heavy to her ears.

“Separation. If I am to command my own ship, I will not see you as often as I do on the _Shenzhou_. In fact, I will not see you anymore.”

“That’s the goal, yes.”

Michael’s eyes shoot up, shaken, but she stops short of trailing past Philippa’s chin, afraid of what she will find there. She was right: the impression she has been trying to isolate is _rejection_.

“I mean to say it’s time,” Philippa utters with care. “I can’t hold your hand forever.”

Michael furrows her brows, irritated at her inability to make her declaration intelligible.

“Not as a mentor, no, but as a _friend_. It is a bond I relish in, working with you, sharing downtime with you, and yes, even here, living with you. I would miss _you_ , not Captain Philippa Georgiou.”

At last, she seeks her friend’s eyes, unsure of what she will find here.

Attention, complete, and Michael knows that Philippa listened and heard every word she said. The pressure her upper lip holds on her bottom lip does not announce a clear, instant resolution, but the lofty smile that takes root there, gradually rounding her cheeks, redrawing her eyes, fills Michael with satisfaction for now.

No —not rejection. Not at heart.

“As I wi—” Philippa stops, represses a private smile, head bent, before setting her eyes into Michael’s, sincere.

“As I would, Michael.” Philippa ponders as she delicately removes soil from her gloves, and Michael wishes she was between her fingers. “Your absence from my side would be felt deeply. I _am_ grateful you are here with me.”

Warmth blooms across her chest and stomach, making her fingers tingle. Speaking so openly about a bond she experienced only through her own eyes is every bit as exciting as she suspected it would be, illicit even, both by Vulcan and Starfleet standards. Philippa has always been generous in her friendship, but she rarely talks about it, at least not in the manner Michael reflects on words and intonations to process emotions. Gestures yield absolute power in her language.

Philippa is meeting her in the middle with her words, the promise each holds for Michael heavy like ancient coins on her palm.

Michael cannot restrain her quiet laughter. “You once insisted that I should rest when I could because one never knows when the next crisis will strike.”

Dark brown eyes squint, gleaming with curiosity. “I did.”

“One should try and extend this idiom to the heart. We are not apart yet. You do not have to prepare me for anything here and you did not fail to get us out.”

Philippa arches an interested eyebrow, teasing. “Are you saying we should turn this ordeal into shore leave?”

_Such a lack of professionalism. But such delight._

How did she come so far out of herself? The effects of merely talking openly about what she understands, and does not understand, is intoxicating. She does not know how to stop this gradual fall into her heart, nor does she want to.

“It would be a way of looking at it. Do you not find pleasure in time spent with me?”

Philippa huffs, amused, but still deceptively preoccupied. “We might be looking at months, years, here. Does it not frustrate you?”

Michael hesitates, reading the veiled unease in Philipa’s face. _Screw it_. If there ever was a moment to address it, it is now, when they have been sentenced to the desert. Michael doesn’t want to do it alone. She wants her Philippa back, the one who didn’t have those inexplicable words that Michael accepted in the moment; they didn’t match Michael’s experience of their relationship.

Taking a deep breath, Michael sits back on the ground and drops the plants, Philippa’s eyes trained on her.

“When I started on the _Shenzhou_ , I spent an unacceptable amount of time hoping my situation would change, that I could somehow escape Starfleet and be recalled by the Vulcan Expeditionary Group.”

She doesn’t add she tried as hard to escape Sarek’s house after the extremists’ attack. It seems the most common solution she found to her quandaries was flight, emotional when it isn’t physical.

Philippa’s face is ever unreadable, but full of patience. She knew her then, and she knows her now: Michael’s words are not meant to hurt her.

“It took time,” Michael continues, twining her fingers in her lap. “I made it my home, yes.”

“How long?”

Philippa’s voice is a murmur, and it would be easy to forget they are crouching in the middle of a windy path, covered in sand, hands deep in the ground and coated in root juice.

“The time to get to know you,” Michael answers simply. “To become your friend. I did not experience the impulse to escape anymore.”

On Philippa’s face, a series of emotions flourish, all at once, and for the first time in weeks, Michael can read there a reflection of her own sentiments. She has not processed them all yet, friendship, resentment, fear, gratefulness, but they are _shared_.

The reality of the situation is that Michael is tremendously curious about living in such proximity to Philippa, without any of the imperative of Starfleet lives. On more than one occasion, when they were guests on planet or during shore leave, Michael observed changes in Philippa toward her that the xenoanthropologist found… fascinating.

Her captain might be a mystery, but she is one that Michael delights in more than she can express, like math problems or murder stories.

“Oh, Michael…” Philippa’s voice flutters. “I did not know. You certainly made this home a brighter place. Thank you for giving it a chance." She pauses and fleetingly twists her lips, half-smile, half pout. "For _staying_. As for me, I will try to be worthy of such a responsibility.”

Her forehead tells of another story. For now, Michael clings to the warm feeling sitting in her chest.

She tsks and rocks forward to finish her work with the root at last. “You already are. Although you were poor company for the past days.”

Philippa shakes her head and pats Michael’s knee good-humoredly.  

“Okay, okay. You’ve got me. I am a curmudgeon who doesn’t have her tea. Are you satisfied with such an answer?”

Michael makes a noncommittal face, taking the reassurance and locking it in her memories. Humor always was her preferred form of deflection.

“By light years, Captain… I think I can make you a good one.” She points at the bottom of the hole before them, where tree and hands are mingled. “See this root?”

“Is it comestible?”

“At least two of my degrees say _likely_ , _not deadly_.”

Pleasantly, Philippa arches her eyebrows with a satisfied “oh, good” before bending over the roots and digging her hands deeper.

As Michael joins her, Philippa tilts her head towards Michael and enthuses, “Let’s get this one out and after that, I need you back there; I think I spotted an interesting type of ground nearby.”

 _Yes,_ Michael is curious and excited.


	7. Red-handed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While getting her hands dirty, Philippa reconsiders her behaviour in the past months and comes to an ego-shattering conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to [nomisunrider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomisunrider/pseuds/nomisunrider) and her fine beta.
> 
> This chapter addresses the infamous "daughter" line of 1.04 under the assumption Philippa very much gay-panicked her way out of a relationship that was getting too close for comfort with this comparison. I thought this was an interesting angle to tackle, given how often "sister" is used to downplay desire between women. So if you want to avoid this chapter for your comfort, plot-wise, it's mostly banter, character study and pottery.

Upon waking this morning there is a lightness to Philippa’s limbs. Every movement required to free her from the cover, patiently plait her hair and put on her pants traverses her body. Not her impulses, just something stirring her nerves, tensing her sinews, like the wind outside pushing them relentlessly.

It’s not relief, proof she is adapting to the desert and the storm. She is missing the others, has been missing them for a while now.

The mechanics of their survival has become a mindless habit.

The last message from the _Shenzhou_ reached them almost two weeks ago today. She’s taken long periods off-duty before, but never over a fortnight.

Her aunts and uncles on the holo, Nikos and his cryptic messages probably referring to Milky’s latest gaffe, Kat rolling her eyes at the _Shenzhou_ blowing up yet another one of its decks, Joey’s gifts that would end up in her crew’s possession —forty-three years of friendship and the woman still doesn’t know what not to send her when she’s in space. Anton, Keyla, Gant, Saru, Jira, Januzzi, Danby, Shockley, even that damn Eider who is always in her ears about annual personnel reviews.

She misses them when eating in the quiet cave, when packing to go outside, when crossing the distance to the well, when coming back to their shelter and dropping gears with a satisfied moan.

Her companion exhibits the same tell-tale signs, although more reluctant in nature. Michael has always taken great pride in her independence.

More than once Philippa catches Michael finishing a task, like refining maps after their daily exploration, and turning sideways with a sarcastic curl of the lip on. When Michael’s face drops immediately, Philippa does her best to invite a comment, but her own expressions offer a poor substitute to Saru’s scandalized performance.

She manages to make Michael smile, mercifully.

Everything becomes a question addressed to those absent.

How does she prepare the blue roots to make them taste not like grass? Saru would know.

How does that story go about the pilot and the bat? Detmer isn’t there.

Do they really need to discuss sewing and clothing as much as they do, without any of the appropriate equipment or fabric? Januzzi cannot answer.

A ship is an equilibrium of skills and knowledge, all complementary to each other, a moving, breathing body that never sleeps. Michael and Philippa are missing a couple hundred limbs at the moment. Used to order the doings of others, they are tasked with staying still.

Or as still as they can be in the middle of a treasure hunt.

The _Shenzhou_ ’s care package, as Philippa has started affectionately calling it, has not revealed itself yet. Her faith remains unwavering that Saru did drop it as announced, but none of their outings around the mountains proved fruitful, save for attracting the attention of an isolated Crepusculan.

Five days ago when they attempted their longest expedition yet outside the canyon in the direction of their original drop-off, they spotted the creature at the corner of their eyes, on the open sand, watching from as far as the visibility could allow. Michael immediately advised her not to look back, for fear of losing them. In the end, nothing seemed to deter the creature, neither Philippa’s cry when she thought she spotted the case, nor Michael’s laughter when Philippa chronicled that particularly disastrous stay on Sauria with Dr. Nambue.

Their observer stayed, followed and disappeared before Philippa and Michael found cover again in the mountains.

Days passed by. The Crepusculan was always on their trail after that. Once they heard a call swelling from the faraway silhouette shadowing them. No surprise or fear. Assigning Human emotions to non-Human beings is ineffectual, but the cry felt like it was addressed to them, even though the creature scampered away as usual after.

Still, it was company, _hope_ even.

The Crepusculans were here, interested in Humans as much as Michael and Philippa were in them. The possibility of establishing first contact in the near future rekindled Michael’s enthusiasm, prompting an exposé on mixed alien communities that confused and enlightened Philippa in equal measures. The expression on Michael’s face as she chirped from one theory to the other lit something different in her chest —relief, strength, devotion.

In the privacy of her thoughts, as she is putting the work day after day, to find food, clean fabric, repair the door, spurred by her conversation with Michael, Philippa hangs onto that feeling and lets it spread its roots down familiar, risky paths.

“Did you take care of the leak in our second washroom?” Philippa calls out between gritted teeth as she focuses on her present task.

“I did, Philippa,” Michael answers from somewhere in the cave system. “Why do you insist on giving the collapsed tunnels unsuitable names?”

Philippa shrugs, adds a little water to mollify the mixture and rolls the last lump into a thick vermicelli. “It does lend a certain _grandeur_ to the place.”

“I see nothing but grandeur in the naturally occurring formation.” Michael’s gravity is an immediate tell she is enjoying this. “Or are you suggesting the work you have been doing exceeds that of the wind, water and wildlife that have been shaping this environment for more than a thousand years?”

“I take pride in my manual work.”

“You have red on your cheek, Captain,” Michael speaks just above her head, causing Philippa to jolt and almost drop the lump of muddy ground in her hands.

Arms full of various twigs and root for the fire, Michael is grinning smugly at her. They have abandoned wearing shoes and socks inside, as well as anything that would cause excessive perspiring. If Philippa suspects the change leaves her looking like a wood witch, Michael, in her rolled-up undershirt and trousers, with hair that has long begun to frizz for lack of treatment, skin glowing and tanned from the reverberation —Michael looks like a _nymph_.

Plucked from the infinite green, having just leaped over a bush, carrying the fruits of her hunt. Her eyes shine brightly in the semi-darkness of the cave, captivating and deep. And they are currently focused on Philippa and her red cheek.

Philippa finds her breath again and wipes away both sides for good measure, staining even more her arm.

“Does it do anything for my complexion, Number One?”

Her eyebrows jump up. “Saru knows color theory better than I do. The only time he met Spock, they spent a great deal of time debating eyeshadows with Jira.”

Michael tilts her head and puckers her lips in concentration, before adding, meditative: “Does Saru wear make-up? I have never questioned it, but my incomplete understanding of his species prevents me from affirming his complexion is entirely his own.”

“And here I was thinking my crew consisted of the finest scientists in Starfleet with a side interest in beauty, but I have beauticians with a side interest in science. How fascinating. Nevertheless, it would be rude to ask him.”

The moment she catches the glint in Michael’s eyes, she understands she has been played. Her cheek puffs in an attempt to curb her beaming smile and preserve her dignity, but Michael shakes her head, unimpressed, and walks away to tend to the fire.

At least, when she sits bent over her work, Philippa can grin as wide as she wishes.

Nothing can be done for the red on her hands. It will probably stain for days and when her hand breaks the surface of the puddle in the concave rock they dragged inside, the water blushes the same reddish burnt orange surrounding them.

Philippa rolls the dirt between her fingers, cherishing the humidity on her skin, the sheen of water. The clay they dug a few days ago, mixed with the planetary equivalent of grog and quartz, smells like rain, with a faint hint of mold, and to her senses dulled by monotony, this feels like a banquet of riches.

The roots they have been experimenting with are too plain for her buds, and Michael’s reassurance that they contain a great deal of vitamins does little to appease her palate. The pseudo-bugs she captured are more to her taste, especially grilled on a stick, but after a long discussion about beliefs and necessity, Michael and she agreed that the creatures will remain off their menu for as long as possible. The lack of variety is not an issue for Michael, but to Philippa…

How she misses Anton in those moments. Chatting about food in space enlightened many tedious hours of waiting.

After the fourth day, their routine of going out for water and food, trying to find the _Shenzhou_ ’s package and adding comfort to their shelter has become just this: a _routine_. Not unlike the routine on their ship, but private, solitary. These are the undertakings that they have to accomplish as castaways, crucial, time-sensitive, vain.

Everything else is new, incomprehensible, changeable.

Michael shouting a conversation starter with their upstairs neighbors, ever watching but always fleeing.

Philippa tying a twisted thread of twigs around more twigs to improvise a broomstick.

Recharging their solar battery as the winds are having a laugh at their expense.

Completing their first ascension to the plateaus, only to find that the egg sacs have long been deserted.

And every night trying to remember approximation of a life that isn’t monitored and assisted at every turn. Philippa’s aunts and uncles were firm believers in teaching children how to survive without synthesizers and screens. Michael is just a bloody good engineer.

Philippa, well… she’s learning. Again.

Sitting proudly between her legs on a flat rock, the pot has the appearance of an overgrown Earth tomato cut at the top and hollowed coarsely, fifteen by fifteen centimeters, but it appears robust enough for transporting water, maybe even boiling liquids.

The mirroring smile on Michael’s face is the brightest she has seen in five days.

“Only on the second try this time. Who knew this planet would make a potter out of you?”

“A little faith, Commander. I knew I had not lost my touch,” Philippa tries to contain her pride as she pushes herself off the ground and skips to where Michael is inspecting their shoes for wear, leaning against the wall closest to the source of light.

Her first officer emphatically sighs, “A _touch_ does not suitably describe the process of beating a chunk of soaked earth into kitchenware.”

Philippa feels like pressing a finger on the tip of her nose, playfully, and leave a red dot there, but it would embarrass Michael more than anything. The effect focusing on one simple task has on her mood is remarkable.

Discipline —she was right— and perhaps a little bit of soul-searching on her part. Everything is much easier on her heart, her body when she is not constantly fighting the comfort Michael brings her.

“Indispensable kitchenware, Number One. How is the oven coming along?”

Michael puts down the boots and gestures vaguely toward the fire in the middle of the room, right under the natural chimney. Trying to maintain a fire has proved difficult with the cave airdraft, and they need one that burns a little longer than five minutes for their next endeavor.

“A little more _oomph_ to the reveal, perhaps,” Philippa chides, and Michael folds her arms on her chest, her chin jutted at a cheeky angle.

“You worked hard at it,” Philippa adds teasingly.

“The oven consists of our usual campfire with a little more twigs. Even I cannot bring _oomph_ to such a display.”

“No matter how good a squirrel is at jumping, sometimes it will fall.”

“Every day comes with a new challenge.” Michael makes no effort to conceal her derision. “Like impromptu rock-climbing or keeping a straight face when my captain infers I excel at providing _oomph_.”

Their light chuckle is as good a sign as she can get that, despite the circumstances, they are back on track for one of their usual adventures, like with the Caithians two months ago or in the Plantek mountains last year.

They are _good_.

The pot finds its place against the wall in the backroom with the others and if hers isn’t as gracious as Michael’s, it looks like it can contain a hearty stew. Philippa picks up the oldest, Michael’s, and holds it up for her to probe and scan attentively. It would be simpler if they had the help of the creatures living here, but sheer improvisation suffices for now.

“It’s been three days, and the dryness in the air certainly doesn’t help,” Philippa groans.

“It may come as a surprise, but I am not sure the compound we came up with will react accordingly if we heat the pot when it’s perfectly dry.”

Philippa opens her mouth in mock surprise. “I’d never thought I’d live to see the day…”

Michael's nose and lips purse slightly, stubborn, and Philippa shakes her head.

“I do trust your judgment on this, Number One. It will be easier to increase the drying time later on if this one dies on us.”

As the pot is cooking under the combustible, they sit on opposite sides of the fire in companionable silence. Philippa draws to her chest the cover they have been using and pokes at the fire, while Michael absently dusts off the batteries, lost in contemplation of the flames.

Every flicker draws a different feature, the curve of her chin, the intelligence of her mouth, the kindness of her eyes, and Philippa commits every one of them to memory.

Those moments are tougher on her, when she feels tired and proud, and she cannot help finding her strength in Michael and her smile. The situation is so simple, _evident_. Not long ago, she would not have questioned the phenomenon. In fact, for years, she hasn’t.

But Anton mentioned putting Michael in her will, and she was hit with a cruel, brutal realization, that started, _well_ , all of this.

_What the hell has she been doing?_

Everybody on the _Shenzhou_ seems to know that Michael has become special to Philippa, including Michael, while she has been pretending there is nothing to know. She’s been so content to live in this nebula of powerful feelings, fear, dedication, curiosity, this constant fall into the unknown with someone like-minded, because Michael was so good at the game, that she never stopped to wonder how it would look to an outsider’s eye.

And to Michael.

She is too old to form such girlish, intense bonds. Michael has so much more to look forward to than be stuck by her side out of fidelity, or anything else.

It was painful to slap the label “daughter” on Michael as she did on two occasions since she decided she would take measures to halt the progression, but at the time it felt like the only way to put the brakes on. “Starfleet” hasn’t been enough of a deterrent to subdue her feelings, so maybe, _maybe_ …

“Daughter”, not “friend”. The twitch of Michael’s eyebrows was barely perceptible which made her maneuver seem all the more like a betrayal; Michael noticed and was playing along.

Once promoted, Michael would have the distance to reflect on what her relationship with Philippa was and hopefully, she would remember her mentorship with fondness, discounting the less logical impulses, far more dangerous for her.

She would forgive her. Eventually.

At least that’s what Philippa had been trying to convince herself of.

But now, it’s an awful feeling. Raw and cruel. Like a blade stuck in her chest and both keeping her from bleeding out and killing her. She is stuck with the consequences of her choices, the rebuttal she crafted so carefully for Michael.

She doesn’t want to pursue it anymore.

A great deal of Michael’s growth as an officer, as a person depended on her work to express herself and her needs, and Philippa was denying her this, precisely: a close friend, one to confide in and to lean on.

And Philippa denied herself so much of what their relationship brought her in the past.

“It is beautiful.” Michael’s clear voice interrupts her thoughts and Philippa’s head jerks up to the view of her face above the fire, beaming at the pot out of the flames.

“It really is,” Philippa breathes, unable to look directly into the woman’s eyes.

She did it for her, for all of them. She _thought_ she did.

Michael rocks back on her heels and sits on the floor, the pot between her legs.

“I have never…”

Her hands are drawn to the burning clay, not cooled yet, and she hovers there, skimming the imperfections and discolorations.

“Manual arts have never been encouraged in my family, besides music. Sarek saw it as the mastery of an instrument and Amanda as a free form of expression, when I had no way to practice either of them.”

A sigh escapes her lips, like a reluctant apology. Philippa waits, transfixed, for Michael to continue.

“Master how? I could not control my emotions at first. Express what? I had no words to put on my feelings, since no one taught them to me in Vulcan. I still lack the heart to tell my people that it did as much for me as screaming in the dark.”

“Dancing could feel like screaming in the dark, at times. It must be why I kept it for so long. A language, however unintelligible to some, to oneself, is still a language.”

“Yes, talking _is_ beneficial, but it begs the question of who will hear, better, listen.”

Something in Michael’s voice prompts Philippa to seek her eyes. The hint of an accusation, the ghost of a plea lies there beneath her placid dark irises.

“It’s difficult to be someone in the face of everything our family, our parents want us to be.” Philippa pauses, studying closely the absence of rigidity in Michael’s posture. “You never told me about this before.”

Michael shakes her head and exhales loudly.

“It was short-sighted. It brings me a certain…” She wavers, takes a dive into her thoughts and nods when she comes back near instantly. “Gratification to know that _you_ are in possession of this information.”

Philippa’s breath almost catches in her throat. “Thank you for sharing it, Michael.”

Her eyes lay gentle on Philippa, wistful, light where Philippa would expect substance.

Philippa hurt Michael, didn’t she? She spent years cultivating a relationship with the implicit understanding this was a new experience, a step into the unknown, only to define it at the last moment, pushing Michael back in the constraints of her childhood. Michael would never admit to it, and there’s probably a precept of Vulcan philosophy against admitting something as irrelevant as an emotional ache, but...

Michael’s stiffness, the distance she put between her and Keyla or Jira, her compliance. _She was hurt._

How simple to pretend Michael is only one in a string of First Officers, a protégée like any other when she has been confiding in her and investing more than with another on the job. How painless.

Her reserve about an unlikely development of their relationship is nothing but misplaced, both as a friend and an officer. Unlikely development… Wishful thinking. Michael only ever refers to her as a _friend_ and the privilege of her friendship is immeasurable.

For the first time in ages, Philippa has found and maintained a relationship with someone who understands her well, who challenges her and never feels the need to rub it in her face, someone who is still alive, still within reach. Naturally, Philippa would fantasize about securing such a relationship, and fear it just as much.

Her heart is so naturally inclined to Michael, to _loving_ her. It would bring her such comfort, now that nothing is comfortable anymore. In this environment preserving their energy is all that matters, and it would be so much easier if she didn’t have to fight her heart as she is.

_Damn heart._

“Do you think you can forgive an old friend?” Philippa asks quietly as she slips another pot into the fire.

The embers soar erratically, lighting Michael’s face as her brows knit in genuine confusion. “Why?”

“I have been less than easy, _these past months_ , not just these past weeks, I am aware. It was not tolerable.”

Across her features expands and wanes the kind of relief that suggests Michael knows exactly what Philippa is talking about. It tears at Philippa’s heart.

“It pained me,” Michael breathes, voice even, “but I understood your motivations. Your words were a great honor, a kindness, regardless.”

Shaking her head, Philippa shifts on the ball of her feet to sit closer, in suspension. It’s never easy but she needs to do it, properly.

“Perhaps. Your empathy shouldn’t excuse my retreat. You are my dearest friend on this ship, and my behavior hurt you. I am sorry for putting you through this.”

Michael opens her mouth to say something, but her words seem to catch in her throat before Philippa continues.

“I need to say this, Michael. The words I used…”

Oh, Michael knows the ones. She was on the beach of Pulau Langkawi with her at dawn.

“They were an attempt at establishing a hierarchy where there was no need to be, where there could not be, at least not of this nature.”

She cannot even fathom it now, twisting her speech and wrapping her mind the way she did to keep her own feelings at bay.

“No matter how practically, how rationally I tried to frame our relationship, you are in every way a friend. Other things, but this, first. Friendship’s neither practical nor rational, thankfully.”

Voice colorless, lips thin, Michael speaks at last, “ _Why_?”

Philippa’s fingers tighten on the dried branch. It will snap.

She will stand alone with her feelings, exposed, but at least Michael will get better than a half-assed apology and a self-righteous friend. The realization that it took her this long to acknowledge it and seek her forgiveness is daunting, bitter, but oh, crucial. Theirs is a long, difficult wait. She cannot waste energy on losing Michael for the sake of a future not come yet.

And if it does come, she’ll take the chance, but she won’t hurt Michael willingly.

“Out of fear.”

Michael opens her eyes in astonishment, but nods, inviting her to pursue.

It’s even more complicated. She was taught to believe in a certain order, and enforcing it is second nature to her. No fraternization. But the family structure in Starfleet? _Yes_ , that is encouraged. The hierarchy is built-in, but if everyone is family… Oh, it isn’t downright manipulation, but it is a staple of Starfleet culture, a tool every captain or commander is given to build devotion fast and strong. Affection springs genuine for many, and she personally considers her crew’s life far more precious than hers, but she _is_ Starfleet first.

From the start, Michael had come with familial bonds so strong that Philippa had no choice but to let her trace her path inside the ship as she saw fit.

Convenient. In the end, Philippa conceded to every insurance she could take.

“Pushing you away was my choice, my regret, but I am determined to amend my mistake, Michael, if you let me.”

“There is nothing that I would desire more, Philippa.”

The pot has burnt in the fire. Michael’s features barely stand out in the declining day, depriving Philippa of a clearer answer. Perhaps, she’ll never get more, but…

“Thank you,” Michael croaks in the windy silence, and the relief there speaks loud, long. “My forgiveness is yours, you know it.”

“Thank _you_.”

Anton had said, then, that Michael’s was too precious a relationship to lose over propriety, and Philippa’s blood ran scalding instead of cold.

The person she is around Michael —less proud, less passive, sincerer, certainly— is the greatest testament to Michael’s impact on her. Recognizing it now lifts a large weight off her chest.

Her mistake was in pretending that she could remove Michael from her life or at the very least rewrite her, their bond, their story. An absence around, inside her, like her crew’s, her family’s right now, and not replaceable with anything. If she follows this path, lets the convenient lie define what they are, who knows how Michael will remember their time together, what story Starfleet will tell in two, fifteen years? A different one, neither better nor worse, but not theirs.

Her people can never be her home, but they are part of her, a nervous system of its own, and trying to rewire it leads to more harm than good.

Carefully, Michael presents the finished pot to Philippa for appreciation.

“Does it mean we can go back to our chess games? I have missed beating you.”

Philipa tuts, “Small steps. Let’s try sparring first. Besides, I haven’t pinned you to the floor in months.”

Michael lets out a frank _snigger_ , to her utter delight.

“Come on, the hour is getting late. We will attempt to walk East tomorrow.”

Perhaps her heart is lying to her, but Michael and her joy don’t.

Philippa hopes with all her heart that the past seven, three years have brought fulfillment to Michael as much as they did to Philippa, despite these past months. She _knows_ the indefinite number of years in their future will. She will make sure of it.

Releasing her breath, she gets to her feet and picks the cracked container out of the glowing ashes. They can use it to store food, eventually, but water will trickle away.

From the shaft above their head, the sound of leaves falls into the larger cavity, abnormally extended. Philippa’s head jerks up in time to catch a tail-like appendage disappearing in the shadows.

Michael nods and the brightest of smiles stretches her lips, gradually.

“Our desert guardian,” she murmurs. “When I walked out earlier they were just above.”

Philippa dusts the dried earth off her hands, rubbing them together, scrubbing the lines and folds with her fingers.

“Have they been listening the whole time?” Philippa cannot help sounding alarmed.

Michael tilts her head and narrows her eyes, engaging. “Would it be such a bad thing? We need to talk to each other at some point, to learn each other’s language. Who knows? To become friends, to be invited into their homes.”

"No, it would be nice."

Not bad, not hopeless. They have a lot to build here. Her greatest work will be in restoration.  

Philippa misses her home, the _Shenzhou_ , but not Michael anymore.


	8. First Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael receives a visit in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mention of suicidal ideation; panic attack.
> 
> Amanda's garden comes from [elissastillstands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elissastillstands/pseuds/elissastillstands)'s exquisite [With Wonder in Their Eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15404217/chapters/35751711), go read this luscious romance.
> 
> Philippa's former profession is a gift from [m_class](https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_class/pseuds/m_class).

_The garden._

_Not Amanda’s garden. At every turn, a familiar patch of flowers._

_Shapes, colors, aromas classifiable, one after the other, without names._

_Her hands digging the dirt between the roots. Buried deep in the earth, a metallic box the length of an arm._

_Longer. Longer. Dragged out of the ground, taking down half the flowers on the spot._

_The surface warm to the touch like an engine._

_The sound of the lid, deep like a voice._

_Inside, nothing but blue, luminous dust, flowing and ebbing against the sides._

_The hole in the garden already filled out with cerulean flowers._

_A sigh. The wind in her curls. Long._

_Above, people strolling in the air. High arched bridges, grey and light-catching._

_The strain on her neck to watch them. Walking slow like still characters in a painting._

_High in the air. An umbrella blown away by the wind._

_Falling and falling._

_Her arm stretched high above her head to catch it._

_And then, everything disappears, leaving behind a deep, shifting ink around her and a recognizable sensation._

_Her foster father stares back at her, straight and impassive_.

_“Sarek? How is it possible?” she asks, her mind almost immediately experiencing the answer. “A mind-meld across a thousand light-years?”_

_“More than a mind-meld.” He pauses, an unreadable thought stirring behind his steady gaze. “Ever since you were a child, ever since the bombing at the Learning Center that act of terror that forever changed your destiny part of me, my katra, has been with you.”_

_This should not have been possible, biologically, unless…_

_She died._

_The revelation hits her like a mass of cold water, jolting her heart with such intensity that she has no choice but to clamp down on the surge of thoughts instantly._

_At least, Sarek does not allow himself to react to her listlessness and continues evenly, “It also allows us this unique form of connection. I see by your situation that my counsel concerning the storm did not yield the results Commander Saru hoped for.”_

_“Our last communication with the Shenzhou dates back to three weeks. This is no Vulcan storm; he needs to come back with meteorologists to help us out, more than engineers.”_

_Despite his controlled expression, a glimmer of emotion flashes behind his eyes, or at least the physical manifestation is how her mind construes the different layers of feelings she is experiencing along with her father._

_Is he trying to keep his Vulcan mind in check in contact with her Human one? Is she apprehending his form in a manner that is less intimate and more familiar? Is the particular projection a consequence of the circumstances in which their mind collided?_

_“You're disappointed,” she says plainly._

_“As you should be. I did not come here to judge Starfleet’s powerlessness to assist one of their own. I came because I sensed your despair.”_

_Were she truly in her body, her face would have twitched at his words. She hasn’t time to process the implications that Sarek falters before her eyes, his katra wavering for a split second._

_“What's wrong?”_

_“Communicating with you in this manner, the physical cost is significant.”_

_Something flares in her chest. Why would he always behave as if caring for her came at a cost to him? It is counterproductive to the very effort he is putting into contacting her here._

_“Then leave me,” Michael bites back, icy._

_Sarek promptly raises his eyebrows._

_“Please. Do you think I came here just to bemoan your predicament? I would not put my well-being at risk for such sentimentality. Starfleet failing to rescue you in a timely manner, I expected. What I cannot abide is a waste of resources.”_

_What is he talking about?_

_“Listen carefully, Michael.”_

_As his words unfold, her emotions well inside, around her, and she stands in her mind, paralyzed. She doesn’t have a body to control in her state, only a mind that is currently exposed and half-dreaming._

_She feels…_

_relief—_

_uncertainty —_

_affection—_

_fear—_

_terror—_

_“Perhaps that is where I failed you. No matter your shame, gather your strength.”_

_Too much._

_her mind_

_her mind_

_Where is her body?_

_“Michael.”_

_—_

_—_

_—_

_“Michael, it’s Philippa. Wake up. Michael!”_

The voice rings high with fear, and it is how she realizes she must be having a panic attack.

Her body shivers, not of cold, despite the lower temperature, and Philippa’s hands at her nape, on the side of her face feel icy against her skin.

The muscles on her bones are locked, turned into stone, an incomprehensible mass sucking the life out of her.

A push against the base of her head, fingers cradling her, and she opens her eyes.

“Look at me, Michael. Focus on my voice, my hands. Where are you?”

The face before her is a sketch in the half obscurity, but she concentrates on the eyes that the scant light shows intermittently, the sharp cheekbones and strongminded mouth. She locates her left hand tangled in her cover and the other on Philippa’s naked arm.

They count together, _one, two, three,_ and the field of Michael’s vision broadens with each word torn from her lips.

The cave. They are on the desert planet. They were sleeping.

“The Crepusculan homeworld,” she breathes out.

“Are you okay, Michael?”

“I had…” She catches her breath, feels Philippa’s touch slide to her biceps and shakes her head. “I don’t think it was a dream. _Sarek_ contacted me.”

If Philippa believes Michael is losing her mind, she is not showing it, her features composed and focused. The attentive, calm breathing becomes one with hers.

“What happened?”

Michael almost gets up, the strands of dream eluding her, but Philippa squeezes her nape, gentle but firm.

“Michael, focus. From the start.”

Michael nods and closes her eyes.

She was dreaming, at first. The garden, the ramblers, the fresh air. Sarek stood in her mind and talked.

“My father had a message for me. His katra… A part of it was left behind in my mind when he…” She gasps, clasps the birth of Philippa’s neck tight. Philippa moves closer, her forehead brushing against her tangled fringe, her hold strong on Michael’s shoulder.

“It’s okay. Take your time.”

“I _died_ , Philippa. The bombing at the Learning Center, I died there, and he saved me by melding our minds.”

Her memory of the attack is fuzzy when it isn’t pitch black, but it is now reforming, taking shape in random, disagreeable flashes; a reactor burning, flames and ashes, a small inert body on the ground, hers. She’d rather not do this now, or at all.

Philippa's voice brushes against her ears, steady, warm, “And you are here, now, Michael. Alive and safe.”

 _Right._ What she is experiencing now is a combination of the residual strain from the mind meld and the stress induced by the recollection of the attack. If the first one is new territory, the second isn’t and she has equipped herself to handle it.

She takes one atom and adds, connection after connection, other atoms until the molecule is fully formed, and her mind can follow the precise angle of each bond with clarity.

1-Methyl-4-(prop-1-en-2-yl)cyclohex-1-ene.

Limonene.

Small circles span on her skin, drawn by the tip of Philippa’s fingers. Regular and grounding.

“Why did he reach us?” Michael asks for herself.

Her heart sinks the moment she remembers.

_“Starfleet is not coming. I cannot provide help presently.”_

It does not make sense.

“I do not…” she almost lies.

“Michael…”

Her name does not come as a plea or as a warning, but as a promise, and Michael opens her eyes to find Philippa looking resolutely at her, so close that even in the dark, she can distinguish the freckles around her cheekbones, her mouth.

She is not alone.

“Please, tell me,” Philippa adds in a quiet voice. “If you don’t want to do this now, we can talk later. But I don’t want you to deal with whatever just happened on your own, alone.”

There is such patience behind her eyes, resting, gazing back like a deep and tranquil pool in the quiet of dry season on Vulcan. Her mind is in shambles right now, pushing against so many urgencies and imperatives, and looming behind is the heaving ghost of the attack, coming at her with sudden and terrifying clarity.

But Philippa stands still, a permanence made softer by long familiarity, fuzzier around the edges. The realization hits Michael of how much of an anchor Philippa has been all those years. Never obtrusive and sometimes sneaky, but prompt and undemanding in her help. Against Michael, she might protest, occasionally push back, but she won’t leave.

Even her poor attempt at parting with Michael rested on letting Michael go rather than abandoning her.

Michael cannot let Philippa down.

“Starfleet will never come,” Michael rasps, her words barely audible to her ears.

The bridge of Philippa’s nose furrows profoundly, creasing her eyes in incomprehension.

Michael’s tongue weighs heavy, cumbersome, sticking to the roof of her mouth when she needs it to be so much subtler, “He said that the circumstances in the quadrants were shifting dramatically and at great speed, toward unfathomable uncertainty and great peril. This is why we were left behind by the _Shenzhou_. Allocating resources to save us would be unwise.”

Slowly, Philippa leans back, moving her legs from under her to shift into a more sustainable position on the ground.

“That is ominous,” she comments teasingly, but the creases below her hairline are unequivocal.

“He said we would be _safer_ here. Why?” Michael hates working against, with her Human mind as she is doing now. Is she trying to remember a dream or a sensation? “ _Death and destruction are raining down on Starfleet._ Those were his words." 

Philippa barely flinches when Michael repeats them.

“Cryptic to the extreme.”

Michael’s forefinger and thumb come pressing against her eyebrows and massage slightly. _Sarek. Starfleet. Philippa. The Learning Center._

Her focus frays with every question and Michael has to sew it meticulously back into coherence.

“What he meant remains hidden to me, sorry.”

“Do not apologize.” Worry creeps upon Philippa’s features openly. “You were in shock. Was it painful?”

Chaotic, like trying to inhabit two minds at once, like being strapped into her own body and watching the world spin.

Michael exhales loudly. “Disorienting. I think I was awake when he was talking.”

The fingers on her nape move and, as the palm presses into her neck, briefly grazes the shorter hair, causing Michael to shudder involuntarily. It has been a while since Philippa shared such an intimate touch with her not out of absolute necessity. The feelings resulting on Michael’s skin, inside her chest are welcome; she has missed them.

And as per Philippa’s apology a few days ago, they are not out of bounds anymore.

In answer, Michael moves her fingers across Philippa’s neck, feeling the strands of hair that escaped her braid.

_They are filthy._

The observation rings so banal that she feels like laughing in the moment. They are _alive_.

“You cried out and sat up. But your eyes were closed and you were not moving at all.” Philippa pauses, dropping her hand into her lap. Michael’s hand follows, taking cover under hers instinctively. After a charged, painful beat, Philippa exhales soundly, “You scared me to death. I thought you were having a seizure.”

Michael’s lips crack into a breathy smile. “Lived to tell the tale.”

“Oh, stop it.” Philippa inhales, deeply, closes her eyes and shakes her fringe off her face. “Sorry, Michael. You should be more rattled than I am.”

Perhaps not.

Even in her dream, Sarek remained emmiptic, but the psychic bond allowed her to sense more about his state of mind that he could convey in words. He appeared confused because the situation was, it seems. Understanding the context in its entirety was beyond his reach at this point. Granted, he could have stated it upfront. But he was Sarek, and seeing him had brought her comfort, somehow.

_“You are gifted. You are brave. You must do better. Because I know you can.”_

His support came as a response to her doubts, urging her to retain her strength and most of all her hope.

“He was also kind,” Michael states, unsure, and Philippa stops her movement to fetch the canteen. “He had encouraging, sympathetic words for me. I must have dreamed it, but the…”

She knew the science behind the mind-meld, knew the sensory reality of it. What she experienced was not a dream.

“He was never one to bolster your self-esteem, but still, he must have thought you were lost. It’s been almost a month. To see you again, even this way…”

Philippa holds up a piece of fabric soaked in water and Michael nods, silently.

“He seemed… Terrified.”

Philippa raises a dubious eyebrow as she bends to apply the cloth against Michael’s neck.

“In his own way,” Michael explains, closing her eyes. “Otherwise, he would have never told me he had failed me.”

The water spreads across her skin, pleasantly fresh. Her body feels less like a weight she is holding.

“The circumstances are obviously less than reassuring, but Michael…” Philippa rocks to face her as she continues. “He contacted you specifically to bring you comfort and provide information. Your family cares deeply about you.”

They do.

Water is trickling along her shoulder, her collarbone. A drop runs down under her shirt between her breasts and Michael heaves a sigh when it reaches her belly button.

In Philippa’s hands, the cloth presses gently across her temple, soothing.

_"Find a way to help those who need you, to help yourself. We hope to see you again, but if we don’t, live long and prosper."_

Was it a warning? A plea to stay here? A farewell?

She wishes his love wasn’t so difficult, abstruse.

“Do you need to talk about what he said?”

Michael has been holding Philippa’s hand for an unknown amount of time now, and etiquette would require of her to release it as soon as she realized, but she is comfortable in the tight clasp, her thumb gently stroking Philippa’s skin.

She feels anchored in her body, not trapped.

“It is hardly the first time I cheated death,” Michael counters with a hint of sarcasm.

“It doesn’t make it easier.”

There is a distinct firmness to her tone that indicates that this time, Philippa will not be contented with offering her a silent shoulder. Knowing her, she won’t push, but Michael cannot hide behind her Vulcan countenance right now. Not after the lights in the tunnel and certainly not after this episode.

Her control has been slipping here, a terrifying prospect, but a distant impulse, akin to long-forgotten rage resurfacing, tells her this was long overdue.

“I am relieved to be able to classify what was a distant, bad memory,” she starts in a measured voice, as she watches Philippa humidify the cloth, “however painful the classification. For years…”

_I thought it was a fantasy, a horrifying wish. Punishment for the deaths I caused. Me dying there, not being a burden to Sarek and his family._

Philippa’s hand leaves her in her lap and lands so gentle around her shoulder that Michael’s thin composure melts. There is no other course of action in her mind: Michael clutches at her, draws her in and seeks her embrace without a second thought.

She didn’t want to die, not there, not now, but death kept following her, finding her. Nodding in acknowledgment as it recognized her each time. On Vulcan, her counselor after the attack had Vulcan words, Vulcan looks, Vulcan advice for her. On the _Shenhzou_ , at least, her pain seemed Human among other pains.

Philippa’s strong arms are around her, her head a comforting weight on her shoulder. There, Michael is grateful to be alive.

“For years,” Michael speaks slowly, her words so detached they seem to be uttered by the mountains surrounding them. “I have experienced these images in nightmares. I thought they were echoes from the Vulcan attacks, my mind projecting in my dead friends. But they were truths. I _died_ there.”

Logic does not guide her reaction. Death is merely a state of the body, one that can be reversed through modern technologies under certain conditions of time, physics, biology. The brain does not immediately die as the heart stops, and Sarek used a biological feature of his kind to reach out to her and restart her vital functions, but…

She died, and she never knew.

“I am sorry. He should have told you about it.” Michael is quite sure Philippa’s tone has never sounded this kind to her ears, and she is _Philippa_. “You can talk about it as much as you need. To me. Or someone else when we get out.”

She will, but right now her mind, dutifully, is parsing out everything that needs to be addressed, now, later.

Did Amanda know? Did her Humanity factor in Sarek’s decision not to talk about it? Without a doubt, it was logical at the time. Now her questions only function as a reminder she was alone then.

With a sigh, Michael lets go of Philippa’s arms, noticing the wet cloth dropped in her lap, soaking the bottom of her trousers.

“Why did he not inform me sooner?”

Philippa looks at her with uncertainty. Sarek knows her in a professional manner. Michael is well aware, through Amanda, of his frequent interferences with the _Shenzhou_ ’s current affairs the first few months of her assignment. She was an ensign like any other, and the captain had more important matters to attend.

Michael knows beforehand Philippa’s answer will not satisfy either of them.

“To protect you? You should talk about it with him if you want an answer. I can only tell you that knowing is a start that I hope will help.” She seeks Michael’s eyes, creasing her forehead as she contemplates her. “Michael, you are safe _now_.”

Michael works her jaws, more out of tiredness than frustration.

“Are we?” She asks in defeat. “What is going on now in the Quadrant that constitutes such a threat?”

Philippa presses her lips together, and for a moment Michael thinks she will remain as elusive as Sarek.

“I cannot be sure. My gut is telling me only something like war would be this bad.”

It should send her into more panic, but hearing the truth from Philippa feels oddly soothing now. The pieces fall into place, however unbelievable. 

Only a quadrant-wide event would prevent Starfleet from sparing one ship to get them back. For an environmental disaster to reach this breadth, there would have to be warning signs, and Michael did not hear of anything that could destabilize life on this scale. War seems far, distant, in Federation space, but Michael herself had been a victim of a conflict that should not have existed in the past, twice, and Philippa had been on enough war-torn planets as a first responder to know that peace is the frailest, most challenging reality at all times.

It is not inconceivable; it is even logical.

Philippa’s voice is even, slow. “There has been tension on the edge of Federation space. Cardassians, Orions—“

“Klingons,” Michael adds, searching Philippa’s eyes for an answer.

Philippa heaves a deep sigh and nods without a word, stunned.

The irony of the situation. By all means, they have been doing the very best of fraught circumstances, only to be met, again and again, by news of a world collapsing around them. _Everything_ that has happened, every communication they receive works as a distraction from managing the memories unveiled by their predicament.

If she has to confront them, at least, she isn’t alone.

“War… Outside.” Michael rubs her ankles, absently. She’s been sitting uncomfortably on the floor for ages and only now is her body reminding her sleep was interrupted by yet another ominous message. “What can we do?”

Philippa’s smile hangs lopsided on her face. “Hope.”

Michael grimaces and shoots a pointed glare at her.

“An understatement.”

“One thing after the other,” Philippa elaborates, and with each word, her tone becomes more audibly secure, its well-known stirring inflections back. “ _Survive_. We will find the _Shenzhou_ ’ _s_ package _._ We will find a way to escape, I promise, perhaps not now, or in three years, but we will.”

On one of the rare occasions Saru and she agreed on a subject, they recognized that both of them desired to be a captain as dignified as Philippa one day, armed with a heart and mind that endure despite uncertainty and loss.

“For now, we take care of ourselves,” Philippa’s hands cover Michael’s in her lap, still wet, and squeeze, almost playful. “We won’t be of any use to the Federation if we die here, would we?”

Michael nods her agreement, mechanically. Her limbs are coated with weariness, and she feels Philippa releasing her as Michael reclines on the ground.

“If the conflict is as large as it seems to be,” she mutters while she gathers the blanket around her, “Then the Crepusculans need to know as well.”

Philippa chuckles. “In due time. Whatever is out there, we are not sure yet. If your father believes us to be safe here, I trust his assessment.”

With an expert toss, the cloth now hangs on the crude rack Philippa put together to dry their clothes after a rudimentary wash.

Their situation is beyond absurd, _really._ Their reality. A never-ending storm on their doorstep. An unnamed conflict at the border. Those are not quandaries Michael can solve, but reality she has to accommodate and live with, powerless.

Their mundane is _surviving_ on the edge of everything that matters. If she were wrongly imprisoned for a perceived crime, her frustration would not be lesser.

With a sigh, she prepares to delve into her mind for a grounding exercise. Personal chronology. It is highly efficient when her body is tired.

“Do you want to go back to sleep?” Philippa calls gently, and Michael realizes her eyes drifted shut out of themselves.

“Not yet,” Michael answers.

There is a ruffle beside her, and Philippa’s voice comes from a spot near the floor, likely on her makeshift bed.

“Have I told you about the time Lena and I sunk our ship to the bottom of the ocean?”

“You did. _Several_ times.”

“Would it help if I told it again?”

Michael knows how long the story takes, its meanders, pathetic and heroic moments; there are several passages that will surely put her to sleep in her state of exhaustion, but…

“Would I be boring you if I recounted my first year on the _Shenzhou_ with Commander Saru and Commander Mouton?”

“Oh, what happened during your first year on the _Shenzhou_?” Philippa asks lightheartedly.

A great many things, and she is thankful she can share them with Philippa.


	9. Friendly Floatees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many are watching over Michael and Philippa, even if they remain unreachable.

_"You can always talk about it.”_

Philippa does not expect Michael to talk. She offers, hoping, constant, but Michael has spent the seven years of their time together keeping her most private thoughts to herself. Something tells her that the feelings brought to the surface by Sarek’s message are more private than any story about her youth that Philippa could have sought. She knows in great detail about the night Saru’s sister Siranna was born, why Januzzi has always snacks on him and how old Keyla was when she got her pilot’s license. Beyond the numbers in Michael’s file and the official write-up Sarek no doubt piloted when he oversaw her transfer to Starfleet, Philippa knows little about her First Officer.

It never really mattered. Her actions and words have more bearing to Philippa, as a captain, as an individual, as a friend.

And here and there, once in a blue moon, across the years, Michael would let slip preferences —red and fantasy—, memories —her maternal grandmother’s cooking and the 2245 Lyrids meteor shower on Earth— and hopes —Thatcher Comet returning to the inner solar system in 2276 and a science ship of her own. They were precious instances, gifts to closeness in building, like her confession about arts on Vulcan. Philippa cherishes them.

For now, she cannot see what is so different in this set of circumstances that would prompt Michael to confide in her spontaneously. Different for Michael, at least.

There are many things that Philippa would want — _need_ — to discuss with Michael, but her duty is to everything else in their situation, and she puts a lid on her heart.

It is not the greatest of sacrifices. It’s even a comfortable one.

But one day after Michael’s nightmare, as Philippa is vigorously cleaning the pots they used to boil roots, already colored in blue, Michael talks.

And she never really stops. Day after day, for weeks.

Her confessions are slight at first as if she is working something out about the appropriate tone and wording. And Philippa wonders, how long has she been needing this? Her contemplation of the clouds, of the desert, of the sky, are vocalized in a manner she hasn’t before, and if the change destabilizes Philippa at first, she accepts the unexpected gifts, marvels in them. Soon they lead to more personal concessions, about her childhood on Doctari Alpha, even Vulcan, some Philippa suspected but never dared to ask about.

Philippa listens. 

They make their interior more comfortable by moving around the rocks, and Michael talks about the Betazed liaison’s assistant she had a brief fling with a few years back. They gather and reuse the long scratchy roots that the Crepusculans use as ropes because Philippa’s spinning technique is lacking, and Michael retraces the life and career of Gabrielle Burnham as they do so. They still walk the desert in search of the package, and Michael argues against prose in poetry.

Perhaps Michael is bored. Perhaps she is more trusting of Philippa. It isn’t before living with someone that you get to know them truly. The woman uncovered slowly is Michael, same and different, admirable beyond reason, striking in her fragility and strength. It’s aggravating to discover how accurately Philippa read Michael in what she kept to herself, yet how surprisingly enchanting Michael remains.

Philippa would fall in despair all over again if she wasn’t so…

 _Oh, come on_. 

 _Her_ responsibility to make it work.

The water rustles as it boils on the fire, breaking out her reflections. Philippa heaves a sigh as she pushes herself off the ground to check the consistency of the broth. It’s already too thick and she wraps her hands in a cloth to retrieve the heated pot. In another cavity, Michael is hacking at a stone with another rock, hoping to hollow out and turn the boulder into an acceptable seat.

The two cups Michael carefully molded a week ago are waiting beside the fire to be filled. Nearby, a wide and flat section of a rubbery material lies on the ground, the probable remnant of an egg sac that they dragged inside and dried off to use as a mat. Their scarves and tunics are drying on the rack.

“Michael, it’s done,” Philippa calls as she pours the stodgy preparation into their cups.

The hacking sound stops immediately, and Michael walks into the main cave, a thin layer of perspiration on her skin. She grabs a clean cloth from the rack and starts dabbing across her forehead. As Philippa stretches to hand her the canteen of freshwater, the pattern in the ever blowing wind falters.

Dropping the canteen, Philippa tenses and gets to her feet promptly, Michael already moving at her side.

From the outside, an unidentified whoosh reverberates into the entrance tunnel and grows closer. They look at each other with alarm, but before they can take measures to hide, the door topples to the side, pushed by long mandibles. Within seconds, two creatures enter the cave.

The huge rust-colored aliens stop two meters from them and take a look at them before starting gesticulating and hissing profusely.

Michael and Philippa startle, but upon noticing that the creatures are not coming closer, they ease the tension in their body slightly.

Up close, the Crepusculans appear much larger than Philippa anticipated. Even crouching as they are near the cave entrance, they stand as tall as a pony, and longer. Their ruddy clothes hide most of their physiognomy, but Philippa counts six limbs. Their eyes, uniformly brown, are lacking anything resembling pupils. Michael would probably be able to offer an accurate description of what they are looking at, but she is currently frozen in place, no doubt assessing the situation and trying to avoid them getting killed.

One cannot assign an emotion to a non-Human species, especially one that hasn’t been in contact with the Federation, but the reality is they seem _pissed_.

All Philippa can focus on is their multiple, threatening limbs, the way the creatures stand far enough from the door for them to do a runner, the distance between where she stands and the blaster lying against the wall.

_Not the most tolerant approach, Philippa._

“You have the lead,” Philippa murmurs between gritted teeth.

Slowly, while the creatures are still talking at them, Michael raises her hands, glancing at Philippa to indicate her to follow.

This causes the second creature to produce a series of noise, this time directed at the other Crepusculan, who answers briefly, unintelligible, before turning back toward the Humans.

“We don’t want to hurt you,” Michael starts carefully, waving her hands imperceptibly.

There is a whole protocol for this kind of encounter, and it could take a while. Remarkably, none of the creatures scan the room. The one on the left even steps aside to retrieve one of their ropes lying on a rock and inspect it between his four front limbs.

 _They’ve been here before,_ Philippa marvels. _Probably before we found the ropes._

It makes sense. If an unknown species sets up house in her neighborhood, she would check on them, preferably in their absence.

Beside her, Michael is holding still, waiting for the Crepusculans to react to them. Her jaw is held tightly shut, eyes unwavering, deep in concentration, but from the size of her eyes, Philippa can tell she is internally bursting with excitement.

It’s difficult to figure out what is happening at the moment. The creatures are not threatening them, not exactly, their attention too divided, too flighty. They roughly talk in their direction, in clicks and thrums, and surprisingly, gestures, but do not attempt to draw near Michael and Philippa’s extended hands. One seems to be lecturing them, with comments every so often from the other Crepusculan.

Philippa has to admit she is getting antsy.

“Did we do something wrong?” she whispers in Michael’s direction. “They seemed to tolerate us until now?”

Not breaking eye-contact with the creatures, Michael answers in an even voice: “They were afraid. But if they studied us for long enough, they may have come to the conclusion we pose no threat.”

“If they saw me fall flat on my face yesterday in the sand, they must have,” Philippa quips back.

Michael shoots her a pointed side glance. “We should perhaps lie down. The way they fail to stand on their hind legs suggests that a perfectly upright position like ours communicates a threat.”

“Michael, I am not getting on the floor before these giant ants.”

“I would need to take a closer look to make sure the front appendages on their heads are not limbs.”

“Oh, great, spiders then,” Philippa grumbles.

The creatures are now listening to them with rapt attention, immobile.

Of course, without a translator, the situation must be as confusing to them as it is to Michael and Philippa. Even if they had one, it would take some time for Philippa to compile enough words for a functional translating program.

A soft, wondrous sigh escapes Michael’s lips. “Can you believe it? They are experiencing a brand new language.”

The visitors discuss between them again, regularly glancing at Philippa and Michael who haven’t moved an inch since they entered. One of them turns toward the cave entrance and produces a low sound, noticeably different from the ones spoken before and that descends to inaudible frequencies. Michael’s eyes are wide as saucepans.

After a breathless minute, a couple of new Crepusculans enter the cave, hurling inside a ballot of drapes and metal that Philippa cannot make out at first.

Well, Philippa cannot make out a lot of what happens next. The four sizeable creatures now in the cave gather above the bundle lying before the entrance, and the creature that has been talking the most extracts from their layers of clothing an object with the appearance and size of a vial.

Glowing, blue, tiny light bugs swirling inside.

Michael lets out an audible breath at her side. Philippa gapes, transfixed, as a small amount of the content is poured on the parcel. A dozen of bright luminous dots hover between the drapes before being absorbed.

The Crepusculans watch Michael and Philippa with intensity for what seems like an eternity, assessing their reaction as much as they are theirs. Then, they exchange a few clicks and rush out of the cave, leaving behind the heap of fabric and metal, without a second look.

When Philippa finds her breath again, she registers vaguely a crash at her side. Michael has dropped to her knees on the floor and is breathing deeply, head bowed.

In a second, Philippa is at her side but the moment she places a soothing hand across Michael’s back, she feels under her palm a deep sigh.

“Michael?”

Her head rolls back, exuberant, and she clasps Philippa’s other hand, nearly dragging her on the ground with her. “Have you seen the way they— and their— the blue… They use it! As an instrument perhaps. Or a marker? It could even be spiritual.”

Rolling her eyes, Philippa squeezes her fingers and jogs to the entrance to put the door back in place. As far as she can tell, there is no one inside the tunnel. The Crepusculans have left.

“Oh, this is stunning,” Michael babbles, letting out a delighted honest-to-God _giggle_ at her back. “I don’t think I noticed any particular dimorphism between individuals, but the variations on their ridges and frequency of voices, it’s incredible.”

Crouching, Philippa squints at the bundle on the floor. The fabric does not look Federation-made, so it must be local, but the metallic material definitely isn’t.

“I think they did not appreciate to find this piece of junk on their land.” She looks up to see Michael joining her near the entrance. “Is it what I think it is?”

With deft fingers, Michael disentangles the torn drapes and bonds that the Crepusculans probably used to drag around the parcel and removes the dust from the metallic case.

When the familiar shape appears, shining on the case’s surface, Philippa’s heart swells with pride.

“Emergency supplies,” Michael announces triumphantly. “They must have found it and kept it to open it.”

Sitting on the floor, Philippa tugs at the remaining drape to free the top. “Will you do me the honor, Number One?”

After rubbing a hand across the screen to clean off the grime, Michael enters the universal password for the Federation of Planets rather than the _Shenzhou_ , earning a curious look from Philippa.

Michael dips her head before answering: “You complained about Starfleet’s lack of cooperation when it came to interspecies collaboration.” She lifts a caustic eyebrow. “Saru may have listened.”

The cover unlocks with a satisfyingly mechanic sound. Michael and Philippa both grab the edges and push the lid all the way back.

The inside is packed full.

“I am pleasantly surprised by Saru’s captaining abilities in my absence.”

“Shall I take that the wrong way?”

“Only if you want to,” Philippa offers before plunging her hand between the stacks of boxes and objects.

It takes them some time to unpack, as well as a surprisingly passionate argument on Starfleet standard baggage.

Two changes of clothes for each of them, underwear, jackets and coats, boots, sleeping bags, all vacuum packed for space; spare goggles and gloves; vitamins and nutrient rations; sodium replacement patches, anti-UV injections and iodine tablets; a small solar-powered water synthesizer; a proper medkit with radiation pills and a regenerative device; long-autonomy batteries and a translator; tarp, tools —Philippa could not repress her smile at the Swiss Army knife, a reliable antiquity—, lamps, ropes, firestarters; straw hats.

Laughter starts bubbling in her chest. She bites her lip to curb it, feeling the ridiculousness of her reaction when from beside her a gentle, rare sound trickles —Michael’s laughter, clear as water.

“I think Januzzi put it together,” Michael explains between two breaths, as she is waving a small instrument that Philippa immediately identifies as an ACME whistle. “He’s an expert trekker.”

“I think they all did,” Philippa whispers in amazement.

These are her cotton undershirts, not some hastily replicated standard models smelling of ozone and metal. Someone went through the trouble of accessing her wardrobe, which, if it qualifies as a breach of privacy, is oddly soothing under the circumstances.

“How sweet,” Michael marvels, caressing the surface of the translator.

The emotion on her face is evident, her lips parted in a peculiar smile, half elation, half fragility. It tugs at the corners of her lips and lifts her cheeks, creases the skin under her eyes and darkens her irises. Happy, she is breathtaking. For a brief searing second, Philippa is reminded of the only reason she dragged them to this blasted planet; Philippa wanted to make Michael happy. Despite her motivation, her weaknesses, her crudeness, Philippa wanted to gift Michael this moment before the end. Them together, under the crimson mountains, across the dancing sand, breaking a well open to save a species they didn’t even know.

It was beautiful, it was for Michael.

And now, her crew, her people, did the same for her.

“It really is,” Philippa adds in a breath, averting her eyes not to well up.

Trying to occupy her hands, she retrieves a PADD lodged between the side of the box and the sleeping bag. Upon activation, a bubble pops up on the screen.

“We have a message,” Philippa remarks with a frown.

Michael shuffles close to her to look upon the device.

On the screen, the lanky figure of Saru fidgets. Judging by his surroundings, he must stand in a corner of the mess hall.

 _Is this recording, Lieutenant Detmer?_ Saru’s voice rings clear and annoyed, heartening. 

Hands held in a tent, he appears to be scowling at someone off-screen, who answers him unintelligibly. The Kelpian huffs in disdain, before looking finally into the lens.

_Well, Captain Georgiou, Commander Burnham, I trust this message will find you well, or as well as the circumstances allow._

He gestures dramatically toward the left, where she gathers the package must lie ready to be sealed.

_These supplies carefully selected by Lieutenant Januzzi and myself — Doctor Nambue, your gesticulations are unrequited, the medkit was already assembled— will make your situation more comfortable, I hope. It is to be beamed down within ten minutes at the exact spot where you were initially dropped._

“Never in my wildest dreams did I suspect I would one day make such a confession, but I have missed him,” Michael whispers, voice a little unsteady, and Philippa squeezes her arm.

“So have I.”

Between their hands, Saru is gazing down, looking for his words, meticulous. Philippa has never been so thankful to watch him be himself in a time of crisis.

_Approximately thirty-three hours after beaming you down, we received a distress call from the USS Mirzakhani informing us they have engaged the Klingons at the edge of Federation space._

Knowing something like this was coming does not soften the blow. She senses Michael tense imperceptibly at her side.

“This was before Sarek contacted me…”

_The Shenzhou delayed report for as long as possible, but our comrades needed assistance in the briefest delay. Captain Georgiou… Commander Burnham…_

His eyes show for a second bottomless sadness, before hardening to a professional stare. Philippa marvels for the first time at how in control of his emotions he must be at the moment. 

_We do not leave you behind out of choice, but out of duty. Stars willing, whatever skirmish is happening will come to an end soon, and we will come back without delay with appropriate equipment to find you. According to our estimation, the possibility of life on the planet being sustainable for two trained officers of your experience is a respectable 58%._

Her breath hitches. Beside her, she can hear Michael mumbling something.

 _Yes, I noted your correction, Lieutenant Gant,_ Saru raises his voice and glares at someone off-screen, _but do not believe the probability of our parcel crushing them on landing is to be taken into account. Good luck._

His words are echoed by multiple disembodied voices. Keyla’s. Anton’s. Kamran’s. Saru doesn’t even reprimand them.

Instead, he pauses for a second, this time letting emotion spread across his features.

_Take care of yourselves, of each other. We hope to see you again soon._

The viewing window closes on the PADD, revealing Michael and Philippa’s reflection on the screen.

It’s the middle of the Crepusculan day. They are alone again, surrounded by the contents of the parcel they unpacked, hints of a life lost, for now. Outside, the wind is blowing, as always, and Philippa is taken with a violent urge to stick her fingers in her ears and to listen to nothing but the sound of her blood pumping until they come back.

She takes a deep breath and rises to her feet, needing to walk.

“It is very kind of him to have included such a message,” Michael says in a small voice behind her, and Philippa turns to find her standing, looking pensively at the PADD in her hand.

“He would have been pressed by time with the _Mirzakhani_ ’s distress call,” she adds. “Kindness is not logical under the circumstances and he still…”

With interest, Philippa pads to Michael, who instinctively clasps her hand. In the young woman’s eyes, Philippa is surprised to read extreme gratitude, even _love_. This must have been such a confession to her, such a proof of affection. Has she really received so few of them that Saru’s expected message would affect her so? Does she even suspect the kind of devotion she demands?

Does she know what Philippa would do for her?

Without thinking, Philippa takes a step closer and lets Michael press her cheek into her shoulder, wrapping an arm around her back. Michael does not question the gesture or how illogical it must be to hug under such circumstances; she folds herself into Philippa’s embrace.

“Why, yes, I taught him well,” Philippa offers lightly, and Michael’s breath across her shoulder stutters. “Either you inform me of what is going on or you change profession.”

She pauses, almost distracted by how good it feels to hold Michael close and not experience guilt.

“Kindness toward you is never a waste of time, Michael.”

Michael’s huff sounds a little wet, and she stands straighter, face unreadable, eyes downcast, leaving Philippa’s arms to bend over the half-empty box. Philippa has to rub her shoulders; her skin is properly aching at the loss of contact. He was kind, and she is missing her people so much.

Stars, perhaps she is just as affected as Michael by his kindness.

“We would be wise to tidy up,” Michael notes with a sigh. “Someone could trip on an item.”

Philippa closes her eyes and combs a hand through her hair.

Right. Duty. Surviving.

She’s just hungry at this point. Why does isolation always reduce people to a ball of needs?

“Dinner first,” Philippa says as she walks back to the barely alive fire and the now cold brew. “It’d be a shame if our gracious hosts came all this way dragging the box for nothing. And we should take the radiation pills with our dinner, now that we have them.”

Michael extracts the pills from the medkit and grabs a small box from a package on the floor. Philippa follows her gestures over the brew and the cups with interest.

The cup presented to her ten seconds after smells like actual, seasoned food, and she flashes a radiant smile at Michael.

“Oh, _wow_ …” Philippa inhales loudly what seems like roots and a spicy flavor enhancer. Michael laughs quietly as she sits beside her on the mat.

“Our body needed that,” Philippa adds before swallowing the pill with the first gulp.

Heaven on Crepuscula or whatever the name their saviors have given to the planet.

“You _think_?” Michael retorts. Her nose wrinkles as she smells the food, and a small satisfied hum escapes her parted lips.

Philippa is eating with her eyes closed at this point. It is an indisputable truth that a good meal will help with almost everything.

“The logs indicate that the lock has been accessed multiple times before, over a one-month period,” Michael observes as she consults the PADD linked to the trunk. “Their civilization may be more advanced than we anticipated. Fascinating.”

Between two mouthful of root jerky dipped in soup, Philippa narrows her eyes and tsks, “I can’t believe they came all the way down here to shout at us about littering.”

Michael nods, eyes full of marvel.

“People are just people. Wherever you look. We are not the same, not at all, but put us in the same space and we cannot help but interact. My grandmother used to say Humans could build a civilization with butterflies.”

The words draw past her lips as if she is dreaming, and Philippa cannot help but stare. The trust she gave her this past week, the harmless, beautiful secrets and the heavy, heart-binding confessions… And Michael still talks of butterflies. How could she ever be afraid of Michael? Of the feelings she inspires?

She knows; because it’s evident despite everything between them that isn’t, because it’s rooted deep in her heart and guts, because it brings Philippa happiness.

Michael stops turning the brew in her cup and furrows her brows, peeved. “So much for befriending them.”

“At least you have this in common,” Philippa offers, trying to focus on the conversation, and Michael purses her lips slightly. “Fraught first meetings. Could you rekindle the fire, please?”

“Naturally. Did they include iodine tablets?” Michael asks in turn.

Meal left behind, Philippa escapes to rummage through the remaining supplies. Navigating the clutter on the floor near the entrance is a hazard at this point, but at least they can be assured the Crepusculans will not pay them a visit today.

If the trunk is too narrow to completely block the entrance, they could use the surface as a table, a considerable improvement for their comfort.

The Crepusculans really deserve a _thank you._

“There,” Philippa brandishes the small case over her head.

At the bottom of the trunk, there is a small solid triangle that attracts Philippa’s attention. In five manipulations, the object unfolds gracefully and sits proudly on the floor.

“Oh, nice,” Philippa remarks dryly. “Someone included a washbowl.”

Michael joins her, a hot cup of brew in each hand.

It’s delicious hot, even if it tastes like nothing except spice and salt.

“They do know this is a desert planet?”

Philippa shrugs. “It’s the thought that counts.”

“Would the capacity of such a basin even allow for a wash?” Michael inquires gingerly, hands flat on the bowl’s surface.

Philippa contemplates the bowl, jarringly symmetrical and modern in their rustic interior.

“I don’t see myself hurling across three kilometers of sand and rocks enough water for our sustainment _and_ beauty regime. We will stay grubby longer.”

Something glimmers in Michael’s eyes.

_Oh, stars._

“Since you mention it, I have been meaning to proposition you; there is always sand.”

Philippa looks incredulously at her.

“The sand on this planet is extremely fine,” Michael elaborates, undeterred. “This is why communication cannot come through the storm, but this characteristic could work in our favor with hygiene. I detected no trace of harmful minerals in its components. Sandstone depots like these are abrasive, not unlike soap when used correctly, yet thin enough not to damage the skin.”

Philippa’s mouth opens and closes, while Michael’s smile grows ruthless.

“I thought you were an expert on getting stranded,” she asks pointedly.

“On swamp planets, yes. Or icy ones. The longest I spent stranded on a desert planet was for a couple of days, and we had plenty of water. Sand seems… Does it really work?”

Now, Michael is grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“There is a first time for everything.”


	10. Rogue Wave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reeling from the succession of events, Michael experiences a maelstrom of emotions and makes a discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry for the wait. Setbacks involving cookies, British and rats happened. Thank you for your patience!
> 
> This is it, folks. At least part of it. One xenoanthropologist is now up to date. 
> 
> Thanks to [nomisunrider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomisunrider/pseuds/nomisunrider) for her invaluable help.

Michael picks a task about fourteen hours after the encounter with the Crepusculans and the discovery of the trunk.

The task has to be necessary and time-consuming. It has to be so tantamount that it overcomes everything else. It has to center her with even more proficiency than Philippa does.

Every day, once the chores necessary to their survival are completed —food gathering, battery charging, cave isolation—, Michael takes a seat in a particular spot in the pass, chosen for visibility and shelter from the wind, and she waits for the Crepusculans. The process is supposed to get them accustomed to Michael’s presence, and she can feel their eyes on her, even if they spurn Philippa and Michael still.

She is not passing the time; she is thinking. Delving into the many events of these past months.

“Is the lotus pose really necessary?” Philippa’s voice comes from above, where the captain is watching wind currents in the pass.

“No,” Michael answers without opening her eyes, her breathing controlled, “but I might as well meditate while waiting. Do you have any objection?”

“The situation is striking me as amusing, is all.” A grumble. ”I feel like a dragon looking over a treasure.”

The way Philippa pronounces “treasure” elicits an unfamiliar sensation in her chest, just over her heart, and Michael draws in a sharp breath before responding.

“You do not have to perch yourself so high to wait for them, Captain. The point of the operation is to show them we are now part of their environment, despite the package incident.”

A long process it is, but hiding as Philippa and Michael did might not have been the most efficient way to get them to interact in the first place.

Another mistake she made that she now has to correct.

“Hey, I like the view,” Philippa retorts in a pleasant tone, and Michael cannot help looking over her shoulder.

Her friend’s legs hang in the air over the edge and her head peeks about, swaying as if trying to attract Michael’s attention. This is the highest point they managed to climb to for now, but Michael hopes to establish a path to the plateaus, from the pass this time, with the help of the new equipment.

“Over your _treasure_?”

There is a pamphlet in Philippa’s head tilt, the only form of expression allowed by the goggles and scarf.

“Over my very small empire made of sand and rocks,” she quips back before her head disappears behind the edge.

Heaving a sigh, Michael goes back to her watch and spots three Crepusculans in a corner of the pass, digging the ground and paying no heed to her. Or pretending to, at least.

Her mood is never as light as her conversations with the captain suggest, but the latter alleviate her heart considerably and make her task easier. Since the _Shenzhou_ left supplies a few weeks ago, their work has been reduced to this simple and confounding goal: making their life easier here.

In other circumstances, Michael would have found the process frivolous, but they will be stranded for an indefinite amount of time. There is no point now in trying to pretend they are not establishing residence in the cave. So Michael makes room in their routine for rituals, for plans, for… comfort.

Like securing a safe and short path to the plateaus via the gorge. 

Getting to the top from the mountains takes about six hours in the open sand, with no shelter against the wind before the end of the trail. Philippa agrees without discussion it is a shrewd use of their time, all the more so that they now have the equipment to complete the climb as well as a signal relay to place atop the mountains. Easy access would allow them to increase their chances of being found by a shuttle scooting the area, even by a ship in orbit, electromagnetic conditions willing. It is only logical to divest their energy on the task.

Except logic does not dictate Michael’s decision.

What she sees is the problem to solve, parameters to input and variables to watch. The time and comfort brought by the trunk’s content left room for an onslaught of thoughts and worries she now has to confront. And it is _easier_ to occupy her mind.

Over her shoulder, the Klingons stand always, raining “ _death and destruction_ ” on Starfleet, far away. There is only so much Philippa can say to relieve her unease, particularly when Michael does her best to keep it in check. Her friend’s words bring her hope when they fail to provide answers. Instead, Philippa’s hand, in hers, a familiarity Michael would not have sought four months ago and that she is now fully accustomed to, never fails to help.

And Michael tries to climb a path that starts across the gorge in front of her cage. The nuts and hexes hanging from her harness weigh oddly around her waist after almost three months of walking about in the same clothes, the strain across her muscles so familiar they have become like a second skin. The rock appears too damaged there to ascend above the first few meters however Michael and Philippa approach the path. They have to give up climbing this way.

At night, she dreads the arrival of her father, as much as she does his silence. When she falls asleep, strange dreams play out, scenes of her life from before Doctari Alpha, before the attack, before the Vulcan Expeditionary Group’s rejection. 

She watches, unsure of their significance, their use; they are not disagreeable memories, many of them are happy even, but Michael fails to connect them with her life. When she wakes from those dreams, she spends the first minute staring at Philippa’s braid, or her lashes, or her fingers curled in slumber.

And Michael tries for a second path a hundred meters away from the cave entrance. The rock feels stable there, with plenty of holds, and the climb appears undemanding enough for them to go together. As she is setting an anchor in the stone, Michael slips and Philippa stops her feet before her body starts to fall. The look on Philippa’s face in that second before her witty remark comes takes over the scorching heat and luminosity of the Vulcan desert in her dreams.

The assault on so many fronts, by memories Michael thought she had dealt with, is unpleasant and ill-timed. The revelation that Philippa herself provides precious answers to these thoughts on the other hand…

Philippa’s voice rises clear in the wind, almost singing.

“My former commanding officer would never fail to pick me to stand sentry, for some obscure reasons that escape me to this day. I complained behind his back, but it taught me a great deal about tactics in the field. No doubt my current position is a vestige from that time.”

The smile creeps on her spontaneously, and Michael eases her posture.

“Commander Mouton would send me on the strangest errands during my first year,” she recalls fondly. “I thought she was testing my ability to understand Human orders. In hindsight, she was merely what you would call an _eccentric_.”

Above, Philippa’s indistinct muffle could pass as approval.

“At least I learned how to grow Earth tomatoes under her tutelage,” Michael muses.

Has she already spent seven years on the _Shenzhou_? It seems only yesterday when she stepped onto the bridge for the first time and showed a staggering amount of Human impropriety given the uncommonness of a personal introduction to the bridge by the captain. Logic should have prevented such an incident, instead, pride overcame her. Philippa maneuvered them out of uneasiness.

There is a shuffle behind her ear, followed by a grunt, and Michael turns to catch Philippa finishing her descent.

“Lena believed her officers needed to be more Swiss knife than PADD,” Philippa offers as she trots toward Michael, readjusting her scarf around her neck. “Esteemable quality in a chief science officer.”

“A strange comparison, but it fits her like a glove.”

Michael accepts the proffered hand and hauls herself to her feet.

The Crepusculans will not approach them today, but it is part of the process. Perhaps tomorrow, or the day after they finish with the path. They have nothing but time here.

It is another aspect of her new life that she takes pleasure in; she gets to contemplate the world around her more so than in space.

Small endogenous rodents fighting in the dust.

The sun setting on the crimson rocks in front of the entrance like a dying hearth.

The tender quietness of the cave when the recess hits, just before they leave to gather food or explore.

The smell and taste of the earth when she opens her eyes in the morning.

Philippa cleaning herself with a cloth barely wet, rubbing the fabric across her face, along her eyebrows, down her neck, fingers dancing across her skin as she attempts to scrape the dust without soap.

Out of necessity, Michael has long cut her processed hair, now coiling freely on top of her head without her capillary regimen, but Philippa shows no intention of ceasing her efforts. Her standard trousers rolled up to her knees, squatting near the large trunk, she untangles the knots in her hair and braids it again with care, the posture accentuating the curve of her neck and the swell of her bicep. The view is entrancing, peaceful, but Michael always averts her eyes before Philippa finishes, a sudden apprehension in her heart.

Its origin remains unknown to her, although Michael would not characterize it as disagreeable.

When the wind blows too strong in the pass, forcing them to work inside for the day, Michael finds herself incongruously animated, waiting. She filters the sand they will eventually use for their hygiene. She draws maps and hollows out rocks. She talks about Vulcan, about Earth, and it helps.

Her thoughts are strewn together, memories and hopes alike, questions and gaps, and Philippa is at the center. Putting this chaos in order is proving irreverently thrilling. There is a form of contentment in her heart right now that is not simply a manifestation of her satisfaction at being alive in unforgiving circumstances.

After the tunnel, after the mind meld, her heart filled with ardent affection for her friend, like a feeling eager to expand. It was an energy that she could not contain, atom fission, mitosis, centrifugal force. Her heart shows no sign it will slow down.

She wishes she had more experience with her own heart. She never stayed long enough anywhere to form strong bonds; perhaps in childhood, but that was another life. She spent six years in Sarek’s household, five years at the Academy. But even then students around her had been intent on making her understand she wasn’t granted a permanent place in their life. No rituals, no entertainment to integrate her.

Later on, Starfleet had been an explosion of experiences and individualities in the middle of which Michael had felt the need to retreat into her Vulcan characteristics.

Her conviction has been for years that the relative peace she experienced on the _Shenzhou_ was a consequence of the relative stability in her life. She was building her own path, far from Vulcan expectations, and even the Human nature of Starfleet appeared diluted in its eclectic nature. No choice was required of her. 

But now that she is back to a life of uncertainty, it seems her peace of mind lingers and Michael knows, deep down, it isn’t a consequence of healing she never invested in. The common factor between then and now: Philippa.

Her peace of mind has been rattled by the succession of events, baring many of her defenses and certitudes —such sensitivity to Saru’s kindness, to Sarek’s, to Philippa’s was excessive—, but her strength appears in turn to be renewed, as if responding to a challenge.

Her body is coursing with unidentified vitality, her thoughts rebounding in search of an angle.

She has never experienced a retreat this intense on Vulcan.

When the passage is secure, with steel ladders and holds solidly lodged into the rock, eleven days have passed and they are well into their fourth months here.

On top of the bare plateau, they sit on the edge to observe the furious dance of the earth hung high above their head and below their feet. The trajectory of the sand lies before them, evident. This particular mount is outside the path of the lower air currents which explains why it is home to so many of the trilling creatures and a few airborne species, including, for the duration of the storm, two lost Starfleet officers.

“Isik for your thoughts?” Philippa asks gingerly, her shoulder brushing against Michael’s, knees bent near her chest.

“There is a pattern to the air flows inside the storm.” Michael lifts her arm and points toward a dark red cloud of sand, denser than the others. “Like we are on the bed of a vast river.”

Philippa nods, contemplatively.

“So you have noticed.”

“The mountains on the east shield this plateau from the most violent winds,” Michael continues, twisting her neck to get a better look at the blurry mass beyond the cloud. “But they also force apart and then together two currents of wind, causing the disturbances that slow us on our way to the well.”

“That’s why the winds are so unpredictable there… How remarkable.”

“It isn’t unlike a maelstrom. This also means there are relatively fixed points where the dust is still enough, and from which we could send a message to the _Shenzhou_ or any ship sent to retrieve us.”

Eyes wrinkling with excitement, Philippa lets out a breathy _ah_. “This is excellent news. Good thinking, Michael.”

Her enthusiasm bites at Michael’s heart, and Michael chases the sensation away.

“Incomplete news,” she clarifies, her tone flat. “Mapping the wind currents in search of a favorable combination of relief could take years by foot.”

Michael chews her bottom lip, absently. They could share their plans with the natives, although by the looks of it they do not rely on any means of transportation besides their multiple legs. Worse, even if friendly communication can be established, and Michael estimates they are months away from talking to each other, there is no telling they would offer their help.

Shaking herself out of her reflection, she finds Philippa watching her with a curious expression, expectant. The freckles around her cheekbones and lips burgeoned with the luminosity of the desert, constellating her skin pleasantly.

Attractively.

Michael narrows her eyes and asks in an even voice: “You said you had noticed the patterns as well. What were your thoughts?”

Mischief colors Philippa’s features as she bends toward Michael to whisper.

“I think I can windsurf faster.”

That does the trick of snapping her out of her contemplation.

“You can _what_?”

Philippa waves her hand in the air.

“We have the materials and, as it turns out, a better reason to do it now. Going by the speed of the wind and the size of the sail I could put together, eighty kilometers per hour is not just wishful thinking.”

Michael raises a dubious eyebrow.

“Have you ever speed sailed before?”

“ _No_ ,” Philippa concedes with a hint of embarrassment. “But I know my way around a sailboard, and we have time.”

Michael vaguely recalls Human tourists hurtling through wide beaches that her father would point out to her as a child. This was an ancient sport, like riding a bike, not an efficient way of transportation, meant for idlers and tourists who had no intention of truly reaching a high speed with the contraptions.

“We do not have wheels,” Michael observes. “Windsurfing requires wheels.”

By the look on her face, Philippa was expecting the counterargument.

“You said it time and time again, the sand is finer than most of the grain we could find on Earth. I need to run tests, but my guess is, with the proper inclination of the hull and adjustments to the specific atmosphere, I can bounce off the ground like it’s water.”

“Without damaging your hypothetical surfboard made of _twigs_?”

Her nose scrunches proudly. “Not twigs. Dried and compressed Saru roots.”

Michael rolls her eyes, sensing frustration building inside her chest as Philippa is getting more and more animated.

“I am not calling them Saru roots,” Michael retorts. “It sounds like we are eating him.”

“Well, they still taste like his stew, so—”

Her hand lands on Philippa’s forearm, quieting the captain immediately. When Philippa looks up, the dimples under her mouth are furrowed deep, her lips thinning.

“Philippa, can we go back to windsurfing? Is this sensible?”

Philippa’s eyes search hers at length before the captain answers, and her voice rings low, woeful.

“Did it ever stop you? I told you we would escape.”

“I cannot advise you to jump on a project that will get you hurt.”

Huffing, Philippa leans forward and grabs Michael’s hand on her arm.

“I won’t get hurt, Number One.”

The grain of her palm around her fingers is distracting, but Michael presses on, determined. 

“You have been particularly eager to escape our predicament, justifiably. But this is a situation that requires reflection above all. Philippa, endangering yourself in the prospect of escaping when the place you are now is secure appears unwise, worse illogical.”

The moment the words escape her mouth Michael catches something on Philippa’s face, a particular combination of coldness and terror that she has seen before but cannot place in context. In a breath, the frown is replaced by Philippa’s confident and warm expression.

“Your place isn’t here, Michael. Neither is mine. Safety can look pretty quickly like a trap, trust me. And _safety_ is hardly the word I would use to define our situation.” Her head tilts, questioning. “This unlike you, preaching safety, when adventure is calling. What do you fear so that’s back on the _Shenzhou_?”

Nothing, reasonably. It is not so much fear that guides her, because stars know how disturbing are some of the memories lurking in the shadows of this world. The reason is that somehow, illogically, she feels safer here near Philippa than she has ever been anywhere.

Perhaps emotional exhaustion has won over her.

Her panic attack in the tunnel —Sarek’s revelations —even the Klingons fighting in the distance —it would be foolish of her to pretend this constant reenactment of her failures is not taking its toll on her.

When she goes back to whatever is happening outside of the storm, she will find death, as she always does, and here is nothing but the easiness of Philippa’s company, the promise of a civilization to learn and most of all, hope.

Is it selfish of her to enjoy being sheltered from the worst for once?

She needs to help her people, but while she is here, she cannot resent their isolation.

These thoughts bring such shame to her, when the reality of a conflict, perhaps armed, is looming over the quadrants. The turmoil of her thoughts, of her memories, is dangerous by Vulcan standards, but Michael cannot help her attraction toward that deep well. It seems Philippa is holding her while she gazes upon the whirlpool, securing her in place while she contemplates her Human emotions, unmonitored by her Vulcan impulses.

Michael presses her lips together, unsure of how to vocalize her reflections.

“I will not push you away again,” Philippa resumes, gentle, and Michael wonders where Philippa’s mind went. “If we are meant to remain here a hundred years, I will, and gladly. But let it not be said that Philippa Georgiou abandoned her people to their fate.”

A hundred years. More than a lifetime. Why does it sound so sweet a sentence?

“And I will follow you, Captain, into battle if needed,” Michael answers without hesitation.

Philippa’s chuckle sounds dark, and her fingers curl into her drawn knees. “Now, hopefully, it will not come to that. We are scientists, not soldiers.”

It is true, but Michael is surprised by how much she would be willing to sacrifice of her ideals, how cruelly she would fight to protect Philippa and her home on the _Shenzhou_. She never felt quite like this about Earth or Vulcan, even Doctari Alpha for the short while that her family spent there.

But for Philippa… That well looks back at her again, in her mind, with the distant uproar of a furious underground torrent luring her.

Logic has no answers for her. Her impulse is to lean in and ask the well, ask Philippa: “ _Why am I afraid? Why am I excited?”_

 _Fear_.

Philippa had talked about fear then when she explained her behavior on the _Shenzhou_.

“When you said you were afraid, what did you mean exactly?” Michael inquires, heart on her lips. “I assumed you were talking about protecting yourself before letting me go, but...were you?”

For a fraction of second, a flash of utter terror passes behind Philippa’s eyes, and Michael wishes she could retract her question, so harrowing is the vision.

“Captain, I did not mean—“

“No, Michael, you’re right.” Philippa straightens her posture, facing ahead where the sand is swaying and bellowing. “I should have clarified. I am old enough to talk about these matters without blushing, am I not?”

There is no humor in her voice, not even a hint of sarcasm.

“My affection for you is profound, unconditional,” she starts, her words meticulous. “And it frequently feels comfortable enough to mistake it for something altogether different, more volatile in nature and much more self-indulgent.”

Michael lets out a shuddering breath.

“You are talking about romantic inclinations.”

Under her goggles, Philippa squints at the sun before turning her gaze on her.

“They have a tendency to develop in unlikely places,” she elaborates, voice typically unemotional. “Sometimes between officers of different rank, between friends. The intensity of the bond can confuse feelings. It is not unheard of and complicated many a career before.”

“Then, it can happen,” Michael breathes.

Philippa’s eyes soften in sympathy. “It can.”

It did. The shape her tenderness for Philippa has been taking these past months is manifest now that Michael has been presented with the possibility.

She has never been in love, so she cannot know with exactitude but… She has experienced few intense friendships in the past and what she has with Philippa, although similar in nature, is also layered with something completely different. Something she doesn’t want to share but instead keep close to her heart.

 _Volatile. Self-indulgent._ Perhaps, and the words sting Michael because the way she experiences those feelings, they make her life easier, lighter, brighter.

There is no doubt in her mind that she is in love with Philippa Georgiou. And Philippa had known, naturally, before she did. She had taken fright, but she had eventually come back, because Philippa…

Philippa is her friend.

Like many aspects of Michael that she has looked upon with curiosity and subsequently embraced as part of who Michael is, she accepted this manifestation of her humanity, of her Vulcan individuality.  

Had Michael been alone on this world, she would have survived, endured the bombshells and the doubts. But she has Philippa, and in a manner that gives her strength to look deeper into herself than she has ever done before.

She is in love with Philippa. 

The discovery is groundbreaking.

Her own sharp intake of breath startles her.

“Are you okay, Michael?” Philippa inquires tentatively. “I did not mean for it to come as such a shock. If I overstepped, please...”

“I am okay… if you are,” she tries, suddenly worried, but Philippa nods, lips pressed together. “I may be starting to process only now the events that have occurred over the past months.”

Philippa chuckles, and Michael is thankful for the light squeeze on her shoulder.

“It was high time, Number One.” As Philippa pauses, Michael can see in her eyes the hesitation, prolonged, before she continues. “I am here for you, truly. If my words require a recalibration of our relationship, I will—”

“They don’t,” Michael whispers. “It is not so great a mountain that we cannot climb it, right?”

“Right.”

Philippa’s gaze lingers on Michael’s face. Michael takes it as an invitation. 

The arc of her eyebrows curve differently somehow; the plane of her forehead framed by the scarf and goggles appears more expressive; her eyes, nose, lips quantifiable in their beauty even under the apparatus. Michael sees them differently now; she sees herself watching Philippa differently. If it is part of the human experience, she has to admit that her Vulcan approach doubles her enjoyment of the situation.

“Thank you,” Michael rasps.

Philippa bows her head and whispers: “My line, Commander.” A snicker escapes her, and she turns her head back toward the dust clouds in the distance.

“Will you still lend me a hand with my project?”

“If you help me in my desperate attempts at conversing with the Crepusculans, Captain.”

Philippa’s voice rounds with her smile. “It goes without saying.”

How patient and kind a friend can Philippa be if she allows Michael to experience those feelings without castigating her for them. If this is such a common occurrence among Humans, the possibility for it to happen to her is gratifying. The sudden evidence that like many faces of Michael this one, in particular, is not repulsive, in need of punishment, strikes her as revolutionary.

Philippa, when faced with the realization, put a distance between them but did not break something that could not be put back together. And she did put them back together, their friendship, unobtrusively, over months, when there was fear in her heart.

Oh, to be as rooted as Philippa...

Michael understands; her heart is overcome with fear at the moment for what her discovery means. But Philippa is still there by her side. She is not afraid of Michael, so Michael should not experience fear.

An adventure. With backup.

It seems her eyes are opening to unsuspected facets of her life, some painful, some… tantalizing. Her childhood. Her rage. That was the past. Right now, in this very moment, the layers of questions once removed, Philippa only remains, and the feelings, new, productive that she cultivates in Michael’s heart.

Tomorrow she will meet with the Crepusculans, she tells herself. She will learn their language.


	11. Stand-by to stand-by

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philippa flies a kite and Michael makes new friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to [andunetir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andunetir/pseuds/andunetir) for their advices in snacks.
> 
> Philippa's former profession stems from [m_class](https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_class/pseuds/m_class)'s headcanon.
> 
> Nikos is Philippa's ex-husband in the tie-in novel _Desperate Hours_. Helen is mine.

_They left the hotel at dawn and grabbed breakfast on their way to the Telaga Harbour Marina._

_Kit, one of Philippa’s uncles, had offered to take them on a tour of the coast in his boat, but they had to wake up early to make the trip to Kedah. On the beach deserted at this early hour, they ate their Gardenia chocolate bread while waiting for him, chatting about sailing and Terran fishes, neither of them familiar to Michael, much to Philippa’s delight._

_The sand was still fresh from the night and the sky veiled with stringy distant clouds._

_Quiet, Michael chewed as she looked at the sun opening the morning mists. The past week, Philippa had shown her the loveliest beaches on Pulau Langkawi, the deepest forests, but never had Michael displayed such silent awe as she did before the narrow coastline surrounded by dark trees, overlooked by an ancient lighthouse and a timid sky._

_“What are you thinking, Number One?” Philippa asked gently, brushing the sand off her trousers._

_A deep exhale answered her at first. Michael’s eyes were surveying the horizon, her brows relaxed, lips slightly parted. Philippa could tell her mind was stuck on something._

_“I feel like I see the world through your eyes for the first time, Captain,” Michael said after a while, and her voice seemed aloof to the point it was easy to believe Philippa wasn’t the one being addressed. “It is not what I expected.”_

_Philippa hummed, intrigued. “What does it teach you about me then?”_

_Michael turned her head to look at her, the ghost of a smile on her lips, her dark eyes attentive and warm._

_“Nothing I did not know,” she mused, more present this time. “But it does shed a light on something about myself.”_

_The tone of the conversation was highly amusing in the moment, Michael hanging on to a thought as she was, as if on the verge of a discovery. The intimate nature of the exchange, precious, rare, paled in comparison to seeing her, oh so proper First Officer in a colorful souvenir T-shirt purchased the day before in Langkawi, her fringe messed up by the wind, a bucket hat balancing on her head._

_Philippa bit her lip._

_“Oh, what is it?” she asked nonchalantly._

_In the next moment, Michael brought a hand to Philippa’s face, index and forefinger grazing her jaw. Philippa’s breath caught in her throat._

_The gesture was contemplative, slow, unlike any contact Michael had initiated with Philippa in the past. Michael tended to be tactile, to clasp hands in enthusiasm and give into hugs without reserve, which Philippa had not expected from someone raised on Vulcan. But her touches were invariably linked to emotions, be it relief or joy._

_The emotions involved in that delicate pressure applied to her cheek, that careful examination of her face, eluded Philippa._

_Michael’s eyes, following the course of her fingers on Philippa’s skin, fell on her lips._

_“I do not think we speak the same language,” she marveled._

_Michael was going to lean and press a kiss to her lips—it was all Philippa could think about._

_The possibility did not offend her when it should have scandalized her._

_“Michael?”_

_Michael’s lip twitched and relaxed before her eyes, mesmerizing, and Philippa willed herself to understand Michael wasn’t going to kiss her._

_Trying to salvage her countenance, Philippa shifted minutely in place, repositioning her hands on her knees, just enough to feel Michael’s fingers leave her face._

_“We—we aren’t from the same cultures, Number One. That factors. Space is wide, but humanity somehow is wider.”_

_Hand falling on her crossed ankles, Michael nodded, holding Philippa’s gaze as if she was still examining her. Incomprehensibly, it felt more intimate than the brush of her thumb just under her mouth._

_“I do not think it is a problem,” Michael breathed, lost in thoughts._

_Never in her life had Philippa felt this exposed to the world, to someone. But her heart was also seized with another sensation, trickling, bristling. Like curiosity, inspiration, a wave moving toward her consciousness._

_Its call was tempting, stirring._

_In no way could it be heard again, whatever the circumstances._

_She had known Michael for so long, six years; had taught her, guided her, supported her. On top of being inappropriate, such an urge was a betrayal of her trust._

_But it felt gentle, expected like a “thank you”._

_Philippa’s jaw unclenched so she could whisper, suddenly worried._

_“No, it isn’t always a problem.”_

With a sigh, Philippa tugs experimentally at the rope, warding off a violent gust of wind coming from the open sand. Her tie is supposed to secure the hexagonal atmospheric wind speed meter they put together for their experiment, but Philippa hasn’t much hope for this particular model to withstand the violence of the wind. Two versions have already been smashed to smithereens in the month they’ve been trying.

Right now, her chances of success are hindered by that beach, that morning never leaving her mind.

Pulau Langkawi, of all places —that’s where it hit her first.

It was a simple invitation, a reciprocation after Michael had shown her around _Shi’Kahr_ a year before. Philippa traveled the cosmos, yet her childhood street and the sand strip around the corner were still the most beautiful places to her. She wanted to show them to Michael.

Those beaches hold, now forever, the memory of the moment she noticed what was happening.

She fell in love with her first officer. The realization scared her stiff and drove her into a corner. Three weeks ago, when Philippa told Michael, Michael looked anything but scared.

It isn’t the first time she has experienced feelings for a fellow officer, and she has always prevented the situation from devolving. After all, Michael was perhaps a year away from getting her own ship, because she is bright beyond belief and her record is pristine. Other captains could try to pursue a paramour after they had become a captain on another ship, but something in Philippa was more inclined to let Michael move on and forget her, sparing herself the humiliation of revealing she had contemplated Michael would reciprocate.

Because she did contemplate, at length, over many nights and many cups of tea shared with Michael. It was like torturing herself, tempting herself for the sake of seeing how long she could keep it up.

Those few months between her discovery and her decision to take actions had been earth-shattering, daunting in every respect. The secret to bear was humiliating, but the _elation_ it entailed… The reality of her allowing those thoughts to linger as she did vexes her the most, to this day. The second time around, with Michael no longer a bystander in the war Philippa was waging against herself, her feelings are easier on her.

Granted, Michael isn’t here with her in the open sand, as she is busy working with the Crepusculans for the afternoon, but she has also shown even more empathy than Philippa could expect from her Vulcan Second.

The cat is out of the bag.

“Not that her reaction comes at a surprise, but her reaction to _me,_ precisely, expressing those sentiments....” Philippa trails on.

When the expected answer doesn’t come she turns away from her inadequate glider and steals a glance at the three Crepusculans who have been following her since the beginning of the afternoon, into the heat and the chaos of the desert, just outside enough of the pass for Philippa to conduct her experiments

“Still with me?”

The group showed great interest in her coming and going until now, but they are currently engrossed in the inspection of something they dug from the sand —Philippa cannot see from where she stands.

Neither Philippa nor Michael can go anywhere without having a Crepusculan on their trail. Michael’s watch paid off. In the pass or on the plateau, they now sit and observe them for hours on end, tranquil.

It didn’t prevent the second phase of Michael’s plan to go haywire, and Philippa wishes she could forget their scandalized cries at the sight of the translator, but they are working at getting the Crepusculans to accept the presence of the device.

“Oh, don’t let me keep you. I am just going to make a fool of myself yet again.”

This morning, seeing Philippa toss and turn on her back, Michael advised her to give a go at the latest model Michael and Philippa have been working on. Philippa protested but ultimately, Michael was safe in the pass, the creatures not likely to move close to her, especially with the translator thrumming at her side.

Studying the winds to decide on the shape and material of the sail is time-consuming after all, and Philippa is going at it blind.

One of the creatures coos back at her as if acknowledging the presence of a petulant child.

“I do wish we could understand each other,” Philippa grumbles in her scarf as she strengthens the ties around the axis. “I refuse to believe you don’t have any means of transportation around here.”

Behind her, the Crepusculan purrs in answer. It sounds like nothing, neither interrogation nor agreement. Not exactly helpful, but Philippa isn’t exactly in distress either.

Days, weeks passed since that petrifying day on the plateau. A new Saru roots soup with proper seasoning was made. Michael’s craftsmanship produced a clay pot cooler. Their improvised dry toilet had to be displaced because of a particularly treacherous boulder. They started cultivating a garden in one of the more humid cavities.

And Michael didn’t balk before Philippa’s embarrassing heart.

No trace of fear or indignation after Philippa’s declaration. On the contrary, Michael showed relief, delight, a sort of excitement that must have more to do with their plan to build a vehicle. Sharp as she is, Michael surely gathered all the evidence and has been trying to solve the mystery behind Philippa’s behavior for months before. Now that the answer has been provided, her mind must be satisfied.

To what extent?

Does Michael think Philippa a coward for leaving her in the dark for so long? Is she accepting Philippa’s confession as a show of trust? Is she acknowledging that she herself mistook her friendship for something else?

But Philippa did not mistake anything. Her confession was meant as an apology for feeling the way she did, as much as a lie to preserve what was.

To preserve Michael.

And her heart —her own heart—, there isn’t anything to be done about it. She is living with Michael, a safe, almost idyllic life, made possible by the ever-constant illusion that the conflict with the Klingons has not devolved into all-out war. There is a status quo to preserve, on which their survival depends.

Michael has better things to do than feeling anything romantic for her.

Philippa heaves a deep sigh. “At least I could talk to you about a tale-as-old as time involving a beautiful young woman and an old mentor who should really know better.”

Her hands go back to the knots, the fragile wood structure expected to carry them across the sand at some point.

“I say this and I have absolutely no idea how old you are,” Philippa ventures, furrowing her brows. “You may be my senior by decades, I cannot know.”

A few days of meetings down the line, Michael jubilantly explained their language so far seemed to contain far more phonemes than Earth Standard. The translator isn’t able to parse it on its own, so the entries have to be in part manual.

 _Our tongue is too simple for them, and we don’t have the organs to produce the sounds they use. According to Michael_ , _there is a good chance they will understand us before we do them._

A bit like Michael and herself.

Philippa flips the protective lid of the small captor attached to the largest rod of her kite and checks it one last time.

Everything is operational for the launch.

_Why does Michael not resent her? Why is everything normal between them?_

Everything has not gone back to normal, naturally, because their situation is decidedly not, but also because…

A couple of weeks back, Philippa had caught a cold. Nothing serious, but in a foreign, uncontrolled environment, they lacked the proper antiviral to fight the bug efficiently. The virus never got past the nasal discomfort and slight elevated temperature, which is why Philippa slept it off under a week. Yet Michael didn’t leave her side, not even to ensure her regular meetings with the Crepusculans happened.

Michael had been _terrified_. Philippa, in her daze, was lying too uncomfortable to ward off her expression of said fear. Michael asked then if she could touch her, a request she never made before. As Michael’s hands carefully brushed back the hair clinging to her temples, she hesitated, her fingers lingering down to the line of her jaw.

Like on Pulau Langkawi.

Philippa could not take her eyes off her. Michael’s tasks resumed quickly —boiling water for their dinner, applying a cold compress on Philippa’s forehead, drying their clothes. The whole time, Michael remained silent, watchful of Philippa, as if she was something precious.

Things are different now. Even if Philippa was careful in the expression of her cumbersome feelings, she freed something in Michael.

The question she needs to ask, about what Michael learned of herself on the plateau when Philippa spoke, is evident.

Philippa knows the answer, and she still cannot bring herself to ask.

“You know it isn’t like I am planning to do anything about it,” Philippa argues half-heartedly. “Now is neither the time nor the place. I am relieved to see she isn’t outraged at the notion. Her old captain catching feelings —that must be a new one to her.”

Given everything she went through, Michael is in need of a friend more than anything else, truly. To confess under the circumstances meant to take advantage of her in a moment of deep self-reflection and questioning, but it brought her answers as well as comfort, there is no doubt about it.

Under the eyes of the Crepusculans, Philippa takes a few steps back, appraising a last time the structure of drapes and wood, with the captor firmly fastened to the central rod. It _is_ a kite.

Michael teased her about it for the duration of its construction, while Philippa denied obstinately her claims.

As with many things, her Number One was right.

“But that’s Michael…” Philippa sighs and readjusts the scarf on her face. The Crepusculans are following her gestures with rapt attention now. “She has more compassion in her little finger than the _Shenzhou_ has holes in its inner hull.”

Taking a deep breath, Philippa starts running down the chosen slope, holding the mast and front. The wind pulls ruthlessly in return, but the structure holds and Philippa releases the kite in the air with a grunt.

The rope violently tenses in her grip. For a minute Philippa fears the kite will be torn from her hands and will crash in the mountains like the others.

She angles her body in a different way and yanks the craft toward her, forcing it to stop spinning.

“She is still my First Officer,” Philippa groans between gritted teeth. “She is still…”

_She is young enough to be your daughter._

Twisting her neck, she struggles to get a glimpse at the screen fastened to her belt, showing the data input from the captor. Ten seconds, and she should have everything needed. Last time it took them five hours to locate and retrieve the kite’s remains.

Even with her gloves, the rope is painfully digging at her palms. How mad does she have to be to want to sail in that weather?

Probably no madder than she was at twenty-four; shouting evacuation orders in a language she didn’t speak because the translators had been fried, knee-deep in suspiciously red mud. She fled that life at twenty-five.

Laughter bubbles in her chest.

Right, Michael could have never been her daughter in this reality.

What does it leave Philippa?

_Duty._

But is there a chain of command to preserve in their circumstances, an ideal to die for?

A low call echoes behind her, and Philippa cranes her neck to glance up at the three Crepusculans, wildly gesticulating.

 _“_ What now?” she growls.

The next moment the kite jolts her violently forward. Holding tight, Philippa looks up to find something is spread across the sail. As she strains to see, she counts perhaps fifteen organisms the size of a fist, dark-furred, oblong with four distinct wings.

They must be the pseudo-bats Michael mentioned from their exploration of a larger cave the other day. Philippa thought it was strange that their cave showed no sign of bat occupation at the time, but Michael put it down to the obstruction of the upper tunnel by plants.

“They don’t like it much when an object flies around here, do they?”

Philippa braces herself and starts pulling at the rope, trying to bring down the kite inch by inch. The task would be so much easier if she had Michael with her. Thinking she could do it alone wasn’t the smartest decision.

“A little help?” she shouts to the Crepusculans, peering with wide eyes at her from behind the slope.

At least the bats are not trying to keep her from recovering the kite and they scatter away quickly. That will make an interesting story to tell Michael around the fire tonight.

Her muscles are throbbing, so violent is the effort. Eyes closed, she takes a deep breath before snarling as she reaches the last meters of rope. The kite struggles in the air, starting to spin as it reaches a particular height, before taking a dive toward the ground.

With a cry of surprise, Philippa catches it and falls sideways in the sand. Her back will hate her for this stunt tomorrow, as well as her shoulders. Exhausted, covered in dust, she rolls on her back and gazes through her dirty goggles at the furious sky.

Her chest deflates with a protracted breath. The brush of the scarf on her lips, on her cheeks, suggests that she is smirking.

“Oh, boy,” Philippa chortles.

She feels alive. And it is not the distance from duty and imperatives or the proximity to nature after months on a ship.

On Pulau Langkawi, after their day with Kit, Michael and Philippa had a long discussion about the nature of strength. Does it lie in one’s ability to change or to endure? They had not come to an agreement, as with many of their theoretical debates, but Michael said something about looking to where one’s strength came from and safeguarding that source, be it family, belief, skills.

Alongside Michael, Philippa feels younger, freer, stronger than she could imagine feeling after all of these years in the same place.

With all her heart, she wishes she could make Michael feel like this. But it is not within her rights.

Have her counterarguments been warranties or excuses? Is she trying to protect or punish herself?

Their ranks don’t mean anything here, Starfleet is busy elsewhere, Michael was never shaped by Philippa to the extent she tries to convince herself, their generational difference pales in comparison to the eighty-nine-year storm over their heads, and Philippa can remain her friend while acknowledging that something else has been happening.

_And now?_

Here she was thinking that Michael would not be able to navigate these feelings as well as she does when Philippa is doing such a great job of it.

She _can’t_ remain here forever —the recess is coming to its end and she’ll be buried alive.

As Philippa props herself up, she notes the creatures are practically above her, moving their appendages and hissing frantically.

“I am fine,” Philippa announces, pushing herself off the ground. “No need to worry.”

The group disperses around her, purring, but does not leave her side. With a groan, Philippa checks if no item of her equipment fell in the sand and tidies up her clothes. In her hand, the kite displays only one tear, probably from when she grabbed it, and the captor shows no sign of damage.

“It looks like we made progress. Would you believe?”

The creatures commiserate between them, now waving their antennae and whistling. Philippa wonders for the hundredth time what they could be talking about. The results of Michael’s research on their language cannot come soon enough.

“Next time, I am bringing her with me,” Philippa adds resolutely. “I feel bad cheering without her.”

The Crepusculans ooh in concert, sounding almost satisfied, and Philippa waves a despondent hand.

“If you say so. Shall we go?”

Kite on her back, Crepusculans on her heels, Philippa begins the thirty-minute walk back to the cave.

To distract herself, she starts humming a popular song that she caught in the streets of her hometown that summer she went back to introduce Nikos to her family. Something grows in the wind, startling her.

Running parallel to her trail, the Crepusculans are singing with her.

They aren’t so much producing notes as they thrum in rhythm. Low, vibrant, similar to the call they launched when they first showed up in the cave and brought the package. Possibly, it is their preferred form of communication in the dust clouds, like a horn in the fog. Not beautiful or melodious, but striking.

It feels odd, the tune created fitting to an entirely different atmosphere.

Philippa wonders how the Crepusculans perceive Michael and Philippa, what stories these strangers are telling about them. Do they come back to their homes and write down in their own language the results of their observations? Do they have committees about the strange two-legged creatures that have made their home in their world?

Do they sense what is happening in Michael’s heart? In Philippa’s?

Upon her arrival in the cave, Michael is already back from her visit to the locals, lost in the contemplation of her PADD. The way her face tenses with concentration is captivating. Her black cotton shirt, courtesy of the Shenzhou’s crew, has its sleeves rolled up to reveal her shoulders; it’s an unusual look, but even Michael Burnham is not immune to concessions made to comfort.

Philippa loves seeing Michael pretend comfort is a luxury when it comes to fashion.

Trick feeling.

Philippa loves seeing Michael every day, talking with her, being near her. She loves her annoying Vulcan habits, her Human ones, her utter inability not to pick a fight with someone she disagrees with, her sincerity when the situation doesn’t call for it. She loves seeing her change, challenge herself in contact with others, freer, more curious than anyone Philippa had met, even Saru. She loves watching her innate grace, strength and intelligence, the way they affect everything around her. She loves the warmth Michael ignites in her chest.

With her soul, not like Helen or Nikos or Kat, but, yes, somehow like that, Philippa loves Michael.

And Michael, for all the signs Philippa has been refusing to identify—

Looking up, Michael notices Philippa, and her face brightens immediately, in that subtle, charming Vulcan way.

She cannot give her reassurance now; she cannot love her the way she did others, but she can be kind.

“Hello,” Philippa calls, tone chirper than she feels. “How did it go?”

Michael puts down the PADD on the trunk and gets up to welcome Philippa.

“They speak with their limbs as much as they do with their mouths.” Her voice barely conceals her excitement. “Their language is more complex than I anticipated.”

Kites and scarves find their place against the wall, and Philippa exhales loudly as she frees her arms from the protective fabric, her skull from the goggles.

“Really, how?”

“I think the sound they produce works as something else, like identification or variation,” Michael explains, inviting Philippa to take a sip from the canteen. “Like we would use tenses, roles, but the meaning of their words lie in their movements.”

“Oh, this is interesting.”

What she really means is that the view before her is downright distracting; Michael is now quivering with animation, her hands moving in emphasis, graceful and swift.

“It really is. I had my suspicion when I saw them use the same sign, with different sounds, and the translator confirmed the pattern. Their communication is highly effective given the environment.”

Philippa follows her movements as she drinks slowly, the tempo of her enthusiastic back and forth across the cave entrancing. It’s that beach all over again, with her whole body instead of her eyes, her lips.

“We’ve already established that they can see pretty well in the storm,” Michael elaborates, “but the sound of the wind blocks everything else in places. Their long arms allow them to communicate, even in the distance when the atmosphere is clear.”

“It makes sense they would take so much time to approach us. We were shooting lasers out of our hands.”

Michael nods, eyes sparkling.

“Like dragons for us,” she whispers. “We made progress beyond that.”

Philippa tilts her head, enchanted by Michael’s expression. Ever since she started working with the Crepusculans, Michael’s troubled sleep has abated. It is more than a distraction for her. Perhaps it is helping her in a way that Philippa cannot.

“We’ve introduced ourselves,” Michael explains. Her smile is blinding. “There’s Assa, Iffe, Felene, Shands, Ersha…”

Putting down the canteen, Philippa lets out a chuckle.

“Can they even say your name without the program?”

Michael’s face contorts into a reflective pout.

“It sounds like _Misha_ , but, yes, they can.” She stops, her expression filled with such open affection that Philippa feels herself faltering, her resolve crumbling. “I cannot wait to introduce you to them.”

There is only so much that duty, policies and propriety can prevent when Michael seems so content, so satisfied with being near her. It is one thing to be a friend to her, with trust enough to confess to unmentionable feelings, it is another one to offer…

“I’d be delighted. Do you know they sang with me today?” Philippa inquires. She almost closes her eyes, so near to the surface was the desire to ask another question.

Michael’s awestruck face screams “get out of here”, but she phrases her eagerness quite differently.

“One should not assign Human behavior to non-Human entities, but… Are you sure?”

Philippa grimaces and finally sits on the mat near the fire. Her body is aching, in need of heat and sustainment. Michael joins her, crossing her legs.

“They echoed my song, in their own way.”

Michael nods silently, eyes smiling.

The fact Philippa has slowly resolved over the course of six months that she is properly in love with her much younger first officer and protégée does not erase any of the reasons why she buried her heart in the first place. Simply, the panic she has experienced before over the subject stings far less here, now.

She loves her enough to accept that Michael might be satisfied with the way things are, and if Michael isn’t it remains Philippa’s duty to protect her.

“I wish I could have been there,” Michael sighs.

“So do I.”

Philippa loves her more than any language can tell.


	12. Surface Tension Measurements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael and Philippa take a bath and come to an understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting. I moved around a lot and my internet is still not completely reliable. I hope the chapter makes up for the wait.
> 
> Thank you to L. for her not-so-high-altitude beta.
> 
> Yes, this is a slow-burn.
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you to anyone who read and left comments! I plan to answer them as soon as I can.

Michael removes her boots first, and the socks, trousers and undershirt follow soon after. She folds them carefully and places them on the nearest elevated rock, where one of the boxes extracted from the trunk stands. When she is finished, she sits legs folded underneath in her underwear, palms resting flat on her thighs, and exhales slowly.

The dry warmth of the air on her skin after days of being wrapped in clothes is pleasurable. The wind whispers in the tunnels, above, around, and if she closes her eyes she can almost pretend she is sitting on the edge of the desert at home before a storm.

The smells do not match, lacking the distinct blend of acidity and moisture of the native flora. _Induku. Kylin'the. Alem-vedik. Cholla_. As a child newly arrived on Vulcan, Michael learned their perfume, their silhouette, their appellation. Here, the plants have other names, ones she cannot utter in her clumsy Human tongue and that the translator awkwardly interprets. “Hands of fire”, “Sons of sand”, “Small of the rock” and, her favorite —prickly blossoms that poke through the redder soil—, “Stars in dust”. Last week, Shands and Iffe showed Michael and Philippa their first flowers in six months, leaving Michael a little more teary-eyed than she was at ease to admit before strangers.

The Crepusculans always use the real tense when they talk about flowers, as if they were immortal. Stones are expressed in the past, water and sky in the potential. Flowers in the permanence of present.

Present and a succession of syllables that sounds like hands running through fine strands of fabric.

 _Shh—shh—shh_ —

A huff interrupts her thoughts.

“I am not putting this in my hair.”

Michael smiles and opens her eyes as to not be tempted to imagine her captain similarly stripped, sitting a meter away in her back.

“Well, no, Captain,” she chides. “Rub it across your skin, gently.”

Self-conscious, her hand runs through her own trimmed, abraded curls, lingering on the scalp. The coils haven't adorned her head since childhood, and the sensation would be overwhelming if she let it be. Although she doesn’t have a mirror to appraise her appearance —one object Saru did forget to include in the trunk— Philippa’s celebration of the shorter locks wins her over.

With a sigh, she lets her fingers sink into the sand they have gathered over weeks in the cavity, rid of pebbles or vegetal residues for washing purposes. Her movements fall into a simple pattern: gather the sand in her cupped hands, pour it on her skin and rub in circles to remove the dirt and dead skin.

“I don’t bloody know how to…” Philippa grumbles under her breath.

Without thinking, Michael’s feet lead her to the well of dirt where Philippa has settled, in her trunks and bra. Dropping to her knees behind Philippa, Michael leans in and asks in a mock-serious voice:

“Do you need some help?”

Philippa’s hands fly in the air.

“Can you shave my head first? It’s in the way however I do it.”

Her frustration makes sense. They have spent so long preparing and anticipating their first proper sand bath. To a creature of the sea like Philippa, the result must seem anticlimactic.

Michael shakes her head and heaves a sigh before scolding her humorously: “You do not need to go to such lengths. You still have not washed?”

Contorting her arm, Philippa grabs the hair on her back and flaunts them for effect.

“I figured I would get that mop out of the way as I anticipated it would be the hardest part. And I was right. I think I have made it dustier.”

The dark waves, made noticeably less dark by the dust caught there, are gathered in a loose four-strand braid. They remain free of matted strands, surprisingly so, given how scarce her hair treatment is, but the ends falling on the small of her back are damaged and dry. Philippa chops them regularly but never enough to remove the duller middle section. She must be attached to it, the last emblem to their previous ordered life.

“You did,” Michael whispers, and her hand halts in mid-air as she realizes she is about to touch Philippa freely. “May I help you?”

The second before her answer hangs and burns like debris crashing into the atmosphere, minuscule and seemingly slow as it flies in the distance. Many seconds have spent like this one since Philippa talked more openly about feelings. Yet Philippa doesn’t retreat.

“Show the way, Number One,” Philippa enthuses with a gesture over her shoulder.

Mouth dry as it has been many times in the past month, Michael changes positions to sit cross-legged at her back. Her Captain has not even tried to stay out of the pool of sand; she sits in the middle of it, like a pearl inside a conch.

“Why are you attempting to do this here?” Michael remarks, amused. “You are going to get sand everywhere. It is not like sitting on the beach.”

Philippa snorts.

“Really? I wonder what gave it away? Was it the absence of bad holo novels in my hands?”

Swiftly, Philippa fixes the braid into a tight bun, while Michael starts applying the sand on Philippa’s back in a circular motion.

“Like so. No need to scrub with strength.”

Not a flinch from Philippa, and Michael wonders. She considers and scrutinizes if the feelings Philippa evoked are such a hindrance, an accident to her. Philippa was probably right to classify it as a side effect of their situation, because, because… Isolation breeds need, and Commander and Captain are isolated on a ship, even more so on a desert planet with no one but each other.

The situation bears a similarity to the bad holo novels Jira enjoys consuming in her spare time, but the actuality of it is something unexpected to Michael. The leeway Philippa gave her in tasting the reality of her feelings confounds and excites her, and she tries her best to find direction on her own.  

“Why are you so experienced in this?” Philippa whispers between her palms.

Michael almost answers that after two years as her First Officer it is only natural for her to be experienced in Philippa, but it would not have been appropriate, given their current circumstances.

“It is nothing but physics,” Michael whispers, focusing on the slender shoulders receiving her attention, instead of that agonizing, tender pull in her chest.

Philippa huffs. “When isn’t it with you?”

“Think of sand as mechanical soap, removing dead skin and oil.”

“Nothing but good old exfoliation,” Philippa quips back, voice singing.

“Correct. Head please?”

Philippa pivots and Michael begins working around the finer hair down her hairline, behind her ears and at her nape, letting the sand absorb the sweat that dried there. Without resistance, the head between her hands bows. Its weight and shape feel like a treasure in her hands.

Michael could spend hours at this. Their time has been increasingly employed to the decryption of the Crepusculans’ language and the conception of the sandboard. When they are not separated by their tasks, they are watched by curious eyes or stifled by the cry of the wind in the open sand. Only in the private breadth of their day —eating, sleeping, washing— are they now spending time together, and Michael misses the slow dullness of their first months here.

Or perhaps she is craving Philippa’s presence after letting her feelings sit in plain sight on her chest. They color the world, and Michael has learned to identify and marvel at each and every shade by now.

There, a streak of attraction, in the curve of Philippa’s smile. There, the blaze of familiarity, when Philippa’s squeeze of her shoulder turns into a subtle massage.

This, right here, cleaning Philippa’s back, is a particular form of intimacy, trusted, easy.

“Do you need me to reciprocate?” Philippa asks, voice flat enough for Michael to sense that there is something to read there, to name.

“Contrary to you, I know how to wash myself with sand,” Michael retorts, applying herself to the length of Philippa’s latissimus dorsi as a distraction.

“Right, there isn’t anything you don’t know, do you?” Philippa’s voice has too much of a lilt to sound reproachful. “How am I supposed to show you around on that sandboard?”

“You do not know how to sail, Philippa.”

“But you don’t either, Number One…” she taunts her, and Michael presses her lips together as not to grin at her tone.

 _Eagerness_. _Control_. The two phenomena contradictory, but fathomable. Michael’s catalogue grows, and she speculates until what point it will, if Philippa will close it voluntarily.

“Very well,” Michael concedes. “I will need your help to reach my scapulas then.” 

As with many looks, gestures, touches, this past month, she concedes, out of curiosity, desire, freedom.

Philippa hums pleasantly, the vibration felt under Michael’s palms. 

“And we’ll be two to learn how to fly that thing.”

Michael’s head dips in concentration, as she lowers her hand to the more sensitive part of Philippa’s spine. Her fingers tread lightly, in tight circles, barely pressing. Philippa’s correction, or warning, does not come.

_Volatile. Self-indulgent._

The words were the warning, but Philippa did not reiterate them and Michael did not alter her behavior. Even Michael pushed it to new territories.

_Profound. Unconditional._

The words were provided as reassurance. All hold truth.

Michael has always believed that for multiple, conflicting truths to stand, they must have a degree of malleability, like astronomical equations accepting the readjustment of models. Philippa does not adjust but holds within her contradictions. How?

Under her fingers, the sand flows down the small of Philippa’s back, gathering on the edge of her underwear. Hers is a strong back, all the more so that it is weak in places, Michael knows.

How finely tuned with her body Philippa is, the control she has over her limbs a marvel, but an innate quality it is not: strength and flexibility have to be maintained, discipline practiced. Vulcans are no strangers to exerting such dominance over their physicality, from their posture to their strength. Michael witnessed many awe-inspiring masters in her youth, but Philippa’s control is far more beautiful than she can express or analyze.

The incriminated weakness shines across her spine, long and shapeless, untouched by skin regeneration. Michael does not need to ask why.

The story between that scar is a joyous, juvenile one that ultimately led her to Starfleet.

_Eagerness. Control._

Philippa wears many scars and the passing of time on her body as if they were varnish rather than parts of her.

Perhaps it is why Philippa did not alter her behavior and accepted the change in their relationship as she did. There was room for both, the joy and the reserve.

“I am finished,” Michael says, distracted. Her hand lingers on Philippa’s shoulder longer than it should. Possibly to support her friend’s back as she is leaning more and more into her. “I suppose you do not need me to wash the rest.”

“Are you offering?”

Michael bites her bottom lip and she can see Philippa’s spine stiffen at the slip.

Michael’s hand retreats, curling from the loss of contact.

She is not sure exactly what to do with the feelings. She has been letting it sit inside her, warm, real, around her, for months now. She has license to.

Oh, there is no doubt that rationally Michael cannot act on it. Vulcan taught her to take more pleasure in a concept than its enactment, but the reasons she is invoking are also deceptively Human. Philippa is her direct superior officer, has twenty-four years on her and has been her mentor for the past five years. By Human standards most of these features are not considered proper in a relationship; by Starfleet standards, they are explicitly frowned upon.

But the moment her mind tries to translate the obstacles to Vulcan reasoning… she has nothing.

The union between Sarek and Amanda attracted negative attention because of their different species and cultures, not their age or status difference. Michael has been older than Amanda when she met Philippa, and then her appreciation of the captain had not been romantic in nature, although she had great admiration for the woman. Philippa had little time to cultivate a simple ensign, even as Michael’s aptitudes allowed her to be cleared for the bridge within six months onboard under Commander Mouton. She always wondered what sparked Philippa’s interest especially, five years ago, and prompted her to take her under her wings. By the time Michael grew close to Philippa, she was well on her way to become First Officer. 

And Vulcans have no need for policies against fraternization.

But even in Starfleet, its enforcement is as ineffectual as that of the First Order. _No plan of operations extends with any certainty beyond the first contact with the main hostile force._

“Do you think you can cut my hair?”

The question comes as a surprise, and Michael startles when she notices she’s been sitting in silence at Philippa’s back for a while.

“Do you want me to?” Her tone sounds reluctant to her own ears.

“I wouldn’t have asked. It is weighing me down.”

If this is an invitation to explore, within the confines of their newfound equilibrium — _volatile, profound, self-indulgent, unconditional_ — it was given with the knowledge, intimate, cultivated across years, that Michael would accept.

Michael does not understand, yet, but she will, joyfully.

With a sigh, she takes hold of the ashen braid. “I assume you want a proper cut.”

Philippa waves a hand. “Keep what’s salvageable.”

Michael is no expert in capillary health, but it seems to her the only truly salvageable part falls just above her shoulders. The longer waves feel dry to the touch, scorched by air and light. She’s never seen her captain with anything but her long ponytail and occasional braid.

Michael’s eyebrow shoots up. 

“Are you quite certain?”

“I trust you with my life, I can trust you with my hair, Commander.”

Michael laughs quietly, stretching to retrieve a cutting tool. Scrupulous, she starts sifting the sand away from her friend’s scalp, steadily working her way down the strands to the birth of the braid. Grabbing hold of it, she measures roughly the width of her hand, the equivalent of a little over seven months in hair growth.

As the handle presses between her shoulder blades for adjustment, Philippa draws in a sharp breath and Michael’s fingers instinctively extend to graze her neck.

“Do it before I change my mind,” Philippa whispers.

The braid falls neatly across her naked thighs, tickling, but Michael pays little attention to it as she meticulously corrects the length. The blade isn’t made for the task, but she applies herself nonetheless, aware that the longer she spends the higher Philippa’s anxiety over the result will be.

A nip, here, there, and again Philippa’s body is leaning toward her. A smile tugs at her lips; of course. Those were the seeds planted long ago. Across years of friendship. Philippa trusts her, her touch, despite the lingering tension.

“This feels nice,” Philippa observes as Michael is trying to adjust her left side.

“You say this as though it comes as a surprise.”

Even from the back, Michael can tell Philippa is turning an idea over in her head. She lets it, interested in the outcome not shaped by further questioning.

“Truth be told,” Philippa answers after a while. “I expected things to be uncomfortable.”

Michael frowns.

“Did it need to be? We are both adults. I found the sentiments flattering and your attitude reasonable, given the circumstances.”

An understatement, but she does not have a good enough grasp of how Philippa regards her feelings to venture on her own further.

“In truth…” Philippa's voice lingers, losing in substance before swelling, emboldened. “In truth, I needed it to be, for my own comfort. This is nice. And odd.”

The laughter that breaks the wind rings nervous.

“I don’t know what to do in the circumstances,” she adds, deep in thoughts.

Michael presses her lips together, unsure of what answers to provide.

The soundest argument she has against pursuing Philippa as she would any other potential partner is Philippa’s cautious words. Part of Michael’s mind, the part that taught her love and argued at length about its romantic nature when she was a teenager —that part agrees. Feelings tend to develop in certain circumstances; she is attached to Philippa, has been for a very long time, and Philippa reciprocates this attachment. Provided the right combination of desirability, compatibility and proximity, it is only logical, to the point of triviality even, that Michael would experience a form of intimacy that would result in—

 _Feelings_. The triviality does not eradicate their effects.

Many a beautiful phenomenon could be described in trivial terms. Light is both a wave and a particle, fire a chemical reaction. And light is everywhere one could see, as Michael’s love for Philippa has been for quite a while now.

Michael will defer to Philippa’s reserve, but she burns unspeakably for her.

“Let them change,” Michael offers in a whisper, and Philippa turns her head for the first time in an hour, her cherished profile cutting clearly against the early afternoon pool of light. “Let the circumstances change.”

“I think we already have, haven’t we?”

In her dark eyes, Michael catches a spark before Philippa faces away.

“I am not running back,” Philippa adds, timber suddenly worn. “I am admitting a certain form of defeat. And a victory, perhaps.”

For two contradictions to exist together, they have to exist, not nullify each other. Another world-altering realization.

 _Profound and self-indulgent_. Philippa was talking about herself as much as she was about Michael. Her feelings are enjoyed, even if they are unsolicited. Not merely a personal deformation of a professional situation, not unwanted side-effects to be apologized for, something deeper that warrants all the space and closeness she gave Michael in the past weeks, all the trust, all the tenderness. This is why the situation is dangerous to her.

“You feel it, do you not? Just as much as I do.”

“Why, yes?” Philippa’s voice smiles, timidly, charmingly. “I thought you knew. All I said, did it make sense otherwise?”

Michael’s breath feels shaky in her throat and her blood is pumping hard in her ears.

“In an isolated system, yes, it did.”

Philippa snorts at that, and the movement makes the last strands of hair that Michael cut fall on her legs. Michael reasons that she ought to pay attention to it now because there are goosebumps on her skin from the colder air and the brush of the meshes is enhancing the feeling.

But she also has Philippa’s nape under her palm, quivering indiscernibly, and a new certitude, fascinating.

Philippa was not merely confessing to a fluke in feelings. 

It made the realization more real. If Philippa could yield, could experience such a weakness, and not let it  _terrify_ her… They are not a weakness to Michael though. Amanda and Sarek taught her as much. It may be her turn to share this wisdom with Philippa.

“I will still ask you to let it sit,” Philippa says, her tone reflective. “It’s not something I can put back in the box.”

Michael feels her own spine stiffen. In usual circumstances, Michael is aware Human courtship includes discussion of want. In all this, she does not yet know what Philippa wants, even if she feels, keenly, by contrast, the emergence of her own desires.

Seeds planted. Silhouettes and names. Love with Michael’s name on it. A childish taste developed while her mom giggled at Michael's first crush. 

Shifting in the sand, Philippa pivots to face her, setting her eyes deep into hers, scrutinizing, worried. The chopped hair falls above her shoulders, healthier in appearance. They frame her face attractively.

“What do you want?” Philippa asks at last. “Are you satisfied with the way we are now?”

How could Michael know? As long as her affection was something to be reprimanded and enjoyed in secret, there was evidence to the way she could experience it. A completed equation to appraise even without input.

Michael’s fingers twitch, as if running down her back from a distance, the faint scars and dips there. Imagining the depth of her right, the area she could travel by fingertips, and soon, irresistibly, by lips. It almost feels like a Vulcan exercise in restraint. She could ask by way of an answer, because incomprehensibly, it is what she wants, but she won’t. Her feelings, a possible reality —they are not on the road map.

Philippa is careful in a situation that requires care.

Michael never cultivated anything, did she? Her relationships, her home, her self, all have been put under a revealing light and they presented her with a _fait accompli._ A change in procedure is needed for this reality to be preserved. A desire was awoken in her not to pursue, not to deepen, but to cultivate. To answer with her desires, fantasies, now, would be the equivalent of foregoing weeks of mapping a language, or a square of soil, and transplant the words, and flowers she wants to see grow there.

The Crepusculans do not have a concept of future or dandelions. 

If Michael ever wants to approach some of the events that befell her in her childhood, in her adulthood, if she wants to touch this connection between Philippa and her the way her heart surmises she wants to, she may need to stop looking at herself like an equation, but like a garden.

“I am curious. I do not have a clear idea of where this will lead,” Michael muses. “I stand by my statement that I am comfortable with the uncertainty.”

Philippa’s dark eyes do not smile, but deep and warm with fondness, they hold her gaze, and Michael understands Philippa was avoiding her all that time, under her palm.

“Comfortable?”

Michael nods. “And satisfied.”

With a tilt of the head, Philippa allows the adjustment. Michael’s heart is swimming with possibilities. Above all, she is fascinated by the new depth of sincerity and vulnerability in her old friend, her own contentment with impossibilities and leisure. If she lets it grow, change, who knows what other discoveries will be made? To find out, word by word, week by week, that she has taken root in Philippa’s heart as profoundly as Philippa has in hers is akin to unearthing a civilization, bringing meaning to a newly encountered language. In fact, it is no discovery; it is an act of understanding and naming the world. 

Philippa is not rejecting her, but taking time, for reasons Michael can see all too clearly. For her part, Michael observes, understands, tastes. Never has a classification been this thorough and exciting. The stakes appear low, in the context they are in; to stand still in the storm and watch a feeling grow, planted deep and just barely surfaced. 

Taking time. Michael is learning to do that.

Philippa clasps her hands together with a sigh and looks toward her now grown fringe.

“How do I look?” she asks apprehensively.

With the dead weight of the damaged ends removed, her waves bounce lighter above her shoulders, accentuating the shape of her cheeks and smoothing her jaw. The shorter cut suits her as much as it changes her.

“Beautiful.”

Her slighted pout says _not impressed_. 

“I am pleased with the results,” Michael corrects, arching her eyebrow cheekily. “A new look? All for me?”

Lightning fast, Philippa’s face tenses before it softens into a resigned smile.

“You will never let me live this down, are you?”

Without a word, Philippa has been shuffling on her knees around Michael and gathering sand at her side, mirroring Michael’s earlier routine, ready to start cleaning her. A shiver passes on Michael’s skin as Philippa’s palm lands on her bare shoulder.  

Yes, _here_ , bliss. Even if it is a distraction from the Klingon conflict, her fears, her failings. Bliss in the form of Philippa Georgiou’s deep, _admitted_ affection for her, her friendship and care in navigating this new territory. 

“I am too grateful to let it go, Philippa.”


	13. Copenhagen spirit of quantum theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Test drives and crashes in the desert, an introduction to Schrödinger's survivor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Copenhagen interpretation is an expression of the meaning of quantum mechanics that was largely devised from 1925 to 1927 by Niels Bohr and Werner Heisenberg. It remains one of the most commonly taught interpretations of quantum mechanics.
> 
> According to the Copenhagen interpretation, physical systems generally do not have definite properties prior to being measured, and quantum mechanics can only predict the probability distribution of a given measurement's possible results. The act of measurement affects the system, causing the set of probabilities to reduce to only one of the possible values immediately after the measurement." (Source: [Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Copenhagen_interpretation))
> 
> *cackles*

It takes Philippa three more weeks to complete the board, sail, and mast, but only one hour for Michael to fall from it on a test drive.

In the distance, her friend drops without a sound in the sand, almost suspended in the air by the sheer violence of the wind. Leaving a nonplussed Iffe behind, Philippa bolts —not without difficulty— through the sand waves that separate her from the ditch where the contraption chucked Michael before taking a dive into a dune a few meters ahead.

“Michael!”

Muttering under her breath, her commander is already getting to her feet and readjusting the layers of clothing around her when Philippa grabs her gently by the shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

Michael’s eyebrows and nostrils are twitching with something that decidedly looks like peevishness.

“I am, but we grossly miscalculated how the base would sustain the weight of both pilot and transmitter.”

Unfazed, she brushes off a patch of dirt on her chest and searches the escaped board with her eyes.

Philippa hums doubtfully in answer as she takes in her countenance, looking for signs of twisted ankles or bruises. In the past weeks, she toppled over enough in the sand to know that the impact can be tougher than expected, and her left knee is aching from her last fall. With her forearm, Michael sets her in motion to go get the wrecked aircraft, encouraging. After a quick sign toward Iffe watching them on top of the nearest sand formation, Philippa complies.

“I scrupulously followed your instructions,” she clarifies as she struggles to put one foot in front of the other. They picked a particularly ventilated area outside the mountains, ideal for windsurfing, less so for rambling. “Added weight should not have been an issue with the proper placement.”

“You’re implying I did not position my body properly.” Voice light, filled with curiosity more than annoyance, Michael is on her heels. “I replicated your posture exactly.”

“You did, but sometimes physical skills, particularly involving balance, like dancing or surfing, requires _being_ in one’s body more than in one’s head. Practice is the key. Why did you insist on trying it on your own anyway?”

“I wanted to do my part.” Michael’s tone betrays a certain discomfort, and Philippa looks over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of Michael’s hidden face. The way the scarf tenses across her mouth, over her forehead, has become an expression like any other in this world.

Not preoccupied; wistful.

“Michael, you did most of the maths for the board,” Philippa chastises, looking ahead into the howling dust. “All while studying a _language_. What are you talking about?”

The question deserves reflection it seems, as no answer comes for a while. An outburst of wind forces Philippa to stop and regain her balance, feet planted in the sand, arm shielding her face.

The past few weeks have been uneventful, although more tiring than Philippa would care to admit, physically, emotionally. Unconsciously, she’s been waiting —and dreading— the moment they would fall into something different. A contact held too long, a word inviting earned closeness, their loneliness turned into temporary comfort.

It would have shattered her resolve.

When Michael talks at last she’s leaning into her ear to counter howls in the wind.

“You have been working in the daylight, or the semblance of day that the storm allows, with that vehicle for months, dutifully putting into operation the changes I would suggest. You’ve exerted yourself.”

Such consideration affects Philippa more and more; it’s hard to argue with herself that she doesn’t need this new tenderness.

Her feet push her forward.

“You are a finer engineer than I am, and impossible as it may seem, I am not ready to retire.” A light chuckle shakes her shoulders, a little vain. “I can handle the work.”

It’s a distraction, a goal to work toward while she gets used to her own feelings.

The sandboard stands head over heels in the ground. Its mast and sail crooked, but hopefully merely dislodged, thanks to Michael’s impeccable conception. Dropping to her knees, Philippa heaves a sigh and starts digging around the base to free the board while Michael maneuvers the mast to remove it.

“A little help doesn’t hurt,” Michael comments bent over the board.

From their overhanging spot, Iffe gallops down to them and settles comfortably on their folded hind legs, with the clear intent of monitoring the process from up close.

“And an audience,“ Philippa remarks wryly.

“If ever they do more than watching us we will celebrate by opening our reserve of tea, Captain. It will give us something to celebrate.”

_Something to celebrate._

As if they haven’t been indulging for months, letting themselves enjoy without delving. Complicated matters all around, but a simple life they lead here. Not making decisions, not settling on a definition. Philippa certainly isn’t used to it, and Michael…

Michael surprised her. A gentle heart like hers —she didn’t even understand that Philippa had confessed to more than a crush, a distraction, a daydream. Vulcans are practical with those matters, to an extreme, Philippa has heard. Michael’s pragmatic approach to relationships is no secret on the bridge. To fall into each other’s arms, because the circumstances encourage such proximity, and forget about it once they are back, that would be a defeat to Philippa.

But the fear has abated for a lack of incentives. Very much unlike the woman Philippa has known for seven years, Michael has not dived head-first into peril out of curiosity. In that context, appeased, lulled, Philippa finds herself fantasizing in a way she hasn’t since her alarming discovery more than a year ago.

Her raptured interest as Michael converses with the Crepusculans, fingers flying across the PADD connected to the device to recalibrate the translation, eyes aflame with passion and intelligence. Her clear arousal when Michael welcomed her elatedly after Philippa inspected the cavity of the lights, data and pictures collected for analysis. Her heart when she sleeps by Michael’s side, eats, walks, washes, works, breathes.

Yes, Philippa shouldn’t be so lenient with herself.

“Careful,” Michael calls out, and Philippa’s attention jumps back to the board that Michael is extracting with intensive groans. Rounding her shoulders, Philippa digs deeper to feel the edge of the board and pulls vigorously in concert with Michael.

When the plank slides out of the sand, Iffe gesticulates with fervor without a sound.

“We might have a word for _hurrah_ here,” Michael comments before breaking into quiet laughter.

Philippa hopes so.

Iffe has been nervous the whole morning. The judgment isn’t so much down to their behavior, because Philippa and Michael understand still so little about them than it is cast in reaction to their isolation. Iffe alone accompanies them and that has not occurred since the Crepusculans started chaperoning them. Crepusculans on their own either survey or keep watch.

When Michael asked earlier, Iffe made the sign indicating “fallen to the ground” and purred in potential. Rockslide? Injured young? Meteoritic impact? The vocabulary they need to comprehend their exchange properly fails them, their dictionary and grammar scarce despite the translator keeping tabs on every new entry at all times. Needless to say, Michael’s extreme care in interacting with the Crepusculans has slowed down her study of their environment to the extent they don’t even know where their community dwells.

With a shake of her head, Philippa scatters her troubled thoughts. Everything takes more time here, including understanding each other.

Crouching near the board laid on the ground, Michael is trying to explain toIffe how the mast is secured to the body of the aircraft in calculated gestures, trusting the translator hanging from her neck to produce the appropriate inflections.

“Reminds me of a certain ensign who could not be bothered to join the wave for Commander Mouton,” Philippa teases Michael as she comes close.

Michael looks up, her eyes immediately filling with mischief.

“Saru did not comply either,” she answers with a deceptive lack of emotion. “Such a ritual is both time-consuming and impenetrable.”

Eyebrow raised, Philippa _uhuhs_ before grinning shrewdly. “Was it the only occasion you reached an agreement with Saru across seven years? I should have asked Ensign Januzzi to note the date and time.”

Shaking her head, Michael takes a step back to allow Philippa near the mast, and with a shared grunt, they both lift and screw to secure it.

Tense with effort, Michael stands flush against her back when she whispers, “Is this amount of sarcasm always necessary?”

Philippa’s tongue presses against her teeth before she ripostes, delighted.

“Necessary? No. But I do like it.”

Across her back muscles, she can feel the low rumble of Michael’s chuckle and if she turns her head just so…

The mast clicks into position, and Michael takes a step away from her to check the sail, leaving Philippa breathing shallowly.

In her heart, what did she truly expect? Michael running away in terror or incomprehension? Not walking the line as she does, even if the line is hanging fifty feet above the ground, without a net. That’s always been the trouble with Michael: she has a tendency to get herself into dangerous situations, but rarely do the situations stay dangerous for long on account of her intellect and responsiveness.

Philippa trusts her judgment, her actions, her silences as much as her own. This controlled dance between them, this fall, is all the evidence she needs that she shouldn’t trust either of them. But the reality of their closeness feels natural and unthreatening, surely to reach further could not—

“Did it cast such an unfavorable light on me that day, Philippa?”

Michael’s voice calls Philippa back. Philippa startles at the unfamiliar surroundings. While looking for the board, they wandered in an uncharted part of the desert. With Iffe at their side, there is little to no chance they will get lost, but the recognition they are blind between the dunes destabilizes Philippa for a moment before she processes Michael’s question.

“I was teasing you,” she says in a reassuring tone, picking up one end of the board to carry it. “If you must know, you were quite an average ensign when it came to blunders. I vet the people on my bridge and with every new recruit comes a challenge. We should perhaps head back and fix the weight distribution.”

Iffe catches that and starts running in the opposite direction that Philippa believed to be the right one. Michael doesn’t lift the other end of the plank, instead tilts her head in confusion, arms hanging tensely at her sides.

“You saw me as a _challenge_. It is unfortunate.”

Philippa almost drops her burden in the sand, sensing a shift in the conversation.

“Well, now that you say it like this, yes, it was thoughtless. I never…” She trails off, unsure. Her own prejudices seem astounding in this case, impossible to miss.

“You said I had been away from humans for too long,” Michael points out, even-voiced, and hoists the plank up to go ahead.

Philippa appreciates the irony of her words in retrospect, nine months into their forced stay on an alien world with close to no contact with the outside.

“Your tone implied you saw it as a fault,” Michael adds with equal self-possession.

Philippa did. At first, she had set out to coax Michael out of her Vulcan shell. Later on, everything devolved, and Michael turned out to be the one chipping away at her own hull.

Turning to face Michael, Philippa scrutinizes her dark wistful eyes behind the goggles, peruses the line of tension in her shoulders, all so familiar, and she concludes, miraculously, that Michael is not displaying any sort of resentment, but quiet incomprehension. With everything Michael has been reflecting on in the past months, their very first encounter had to be next in line. She was disconcerting to her and Philippa let herself be disconcerted.

The charm of Michael Burnham…

Human and Vulcan, up close, are as drawn to the curiosities of the heart. Philippa has no clue where this is going but if Michael needs their heart-to-heart to go there, Philippa will follow. Everything takes time, especially working her heart into a place where Philippa won’t disappoint Michael, again.

In wide gestures, Iffe calls from the beyond a dune, encouraging them to hurry.

“I shouldn’t have,” Philippa admits, halting their progression to peer intently at Michael. “I am sorry.”

Michael’s eyes narrow into inquisitive slits, an ardent, Human drive burning behind her composure, “I am curious why you did.”

A drawback of getting close, of leaving her side unguarded —she has to accept Michael will look closely upon her heart. The inquiry should not strike Philippa as unusual coming from Michael either, but to be the focus of such a conversation makes her feel uneasy. Still, Philippa peruses her thoughts from the time, the impression she wanted to make on a promising young recruit, the way Michael did challenge her expectations: she comes up empty-handed.

Unsettling. She’s always had a pretty good grasp of who she is and why she acts how she does.

Why would she care about appearing unappealing to Michael? The better part of her time has been spent in temporizing and shifting the _cordon sanitaire_ between them, ever redefining, ever down-sizing: can she keep her friendship? Can she nurture her trust? Can she touch her the way Michael asks without taking advantage?

In the end, knowing _Philippa,_ truly, will drive Michael away better than her feelings could.

“I am not as open-minded as I strive to be, as you expect me to be,” Philippa acknowledges in defeat. “Quite the ego I had, believing I should change you, let alone could. Call it arrogance, excessive pride in the shape civilization takes when upheld by Starfleet specifically.”

Face unreadable, Michael nods, looking past her as she gets lost in thoughts. 

Philippa is well aware of her own flaws, and there is little chance Michael missed them in the seven years they have known each other. There are many people for whom she will be exemplary, only a handful with whom she will be sincere; Michael is one of them.

About to add something, to ask, Philippa takes a step closer when Michael’s countenance suddenly shifts. Her hands curl into tight fists. The visible part of her face hardens. Concerned, Philippa turns to look in the same direction and freezes immediately.

A wide hulking shape has emerged from the dust, just on the edge of their visibility. It takes Philippa a breathless half-minute to realize that it isn’t moving at all, but firmly planted in the sand, partially buried. The silhouette cuts against the backdrop of whirlwinding sand in a harsh, unnatural way, and Philippa involuntarily tenses up.

Silent, Michael stalks closer, passing Philippa as if in a trance.

“Michael,” Philippa calls out, rushing after her, hand already on her phaser. “Wait!”

A few meters before the dark mass, Michael violently lurches backward into a stiff erect position. In one, two more strides, Philippa is already jumping between her and whatever…

A burnt carcass of metal and polyalloys lies ahead, sharp edges of baakonite fawning from the husk of an elongated cabin. The large tail is twisted just under the surface of the sand, and ornate ridges and engravings glisten faintly in the odd, peaceful luminosity of the Crepusculan homeworld. Damaged beyond repair, torn to pieces by the landing and wind, the shape is nevertheless unmistakable. 

It’s a Klingon raider.

Beside her, Michael stands, tetanized, unable to utter a word.

“Michael, stay back please.”

Instinctively, Philippa seeks her hand and squeezes briefly in an attempt to anchor the other woman, as much as herself. 

Once her phaser lifts at eye-level, her tired muscles snap back into old mechanics, violence and tension, wait and precision. Eyes trained on the wreck, Philippa taps on the translator at her hip and starts moving slowly.

“This is Captain Philippa Georgiou and Commander Michael Burnham of the USS _Shenzhou_ with the United Federation of Planets _._ Identify yourself.”

No response comes from the gutted cabin.

Philippa’s mind is running the numbers, the odds that pilot and passengers survived. How many Klingons does one of these aircrafts carry? Too many for two isolated Humans. Are raiders equipped with cloaking technology? Perhaps, Michael—

“No…” Michael’s strained voice pierces the air. “What would a Klingon raider be doing in this part of the quadrant? Philippa, what are they doing _here_?”

Above her scarf, Michael’s lips twitch painfully, barely containing the emotions under her control. If she never openly discussed the tragedy that robbed her of her parents, the impact it had on her has always been palpable to Philippa, in the way Michael avoided or, on the contrary, confronted certain situations.

“We can handle this,” Philippa whispers. “Trust me, Number One.”

Michael detaches her eyes from the wreck at last and considers Philippa with the intensity of someone lost in the deepest realm of their mind.

“Identify yourself,” Philippa shouts again toward the ship. “Do you need assistance?”

In the absence of answers, Philippa takes a deep breath and circles the ship swiftly, finding only shredded metal and debris to assess.

“All clear.” Philippa jogs back to Michael, phaser lowered. “No body. Whoever landed must have either ejected or fled the scene.”

With caution, her hand finds the crook of Michael’s elbow and wraps around her arm, brushing slightly.

“We’re safe.”

Motionless, Michael blinks. Her dark eyes regain focus as she listens to Philippa, her other hand rises slowly to grasp her wrist.

“By the look of it, this is not recent.” Philippa gestures toward the paint of the hull, abraded enough by the sand thrown around to show metal. “Weapon system appears destroyed on landing. Or in-flight impact, impossible to tell.”

The observation jolts Michael into action, her body and face animating as she directs her focus toward the ship.

“I can,” she murmurs as if waking from a dream. “The impact is not consistent with crash-landing. It was damaged in the air, during deceleration to be precise.”

Philippa raises an impressed eyebrow.

“And there, that blue depot,” Michael continues, her voice gaining in substance. “It must be from the antimatter power supply. It takes about a month to form in these dry conditions.”

She steals a look toward Philippa, who is not hiding her satisfaction.

“Excellent work. Do you think there is something more to learn from the inside?”

Michael nods her agreement, following suit when Philippa contorts into the cramped cockpit through the burnt plexi. Philippa doesn’t balk when she senses a hand resting lightly on her hip as she climbs inside.

The pilot’s seat is about the only thing that stands out in the sand-drowned cabin. Michael inspects the charred panels and off lights, in many ways so similar to the ones inside a Starfleet shuttle. Her throat contracts, swallowing her unease. It’s Philippa’s turn to place a soothing hand between her shoulder blades.

“You are safe. There is no trace of them here.” She presses and retreats, sensing Michael relax at her words. “We should look for pieces to salvage, but I’m going to make sure we can come back here first.”

Extracting her PADD, she secures the coordinates and saves the path they took here. Thank the stars for Saru sending them the area mapped by the _Shenzhou_. The relay on top of the plateau is not powerful enough to guide them as accurately as the ship would, but it allows them to put maps together.

A loud, relieved exhale fills the cabin.

Crouching in the sand in a corner, Michael holds a pilot’s helmet, a reassuringly small helmet.

“Starfleet issue,” Michael comment with bated breaths. “Human.”

Philippa squats at her sides and inspects the relic, grazed but wearing no dent too profound to have killed the owner.

“Model µ68. Brand new.” Philippa furrows her brows. _Very_ new. The distribution to recent ships of the Fleet hadn’t started yet when they left the _Shenzhou._ “Or at least it used to be.”

Michael looks quizzically at her.

“Prisoner escaping from a Klingon vessel?”

Leaning heavily onto her knees to get up, Philippa sighs, uncertain. Disguising her thoughts to appease Michael would be unfair, given everything that has been said between them.

“Or smart cookie who used a Klingon vessel as cover to cross enemy lines.”

“Would the Klingons have reached this part of the quadrant?” Michael’s voice flattens into unnerved coldness.

Walking over the debris, Philippa clambers out of the cockpit and offers a hand to Michael.

The goggles no longer obscure her russet eyes, her coily fringe has escaped from her scarf. Michael looks down with infinite vulnerability at her, and Philippa measures the extent of the road traveled by her first officer, her friend. Pride warms her chest, and love. As her fingers slip along her palm, looking for purchase before Michael hops down, Philippa’s question, called off when Michael noticed the wreck, takes shape again in her mind.

_How can you put up with me? Why?_

“I don’t know,” Philippa says instead. “But we have to find them, whoever they are.”

Face closed, Michael catches up with Philippa to head back to the forsaken board.

“Wait,” she exclaims, grabbing Philippa by the arm. “Where is Iffe?”

 

A functioning board would have been useful as they pushed through the storm at a punishing pace to get back to the cave. The Crepusculans never identified a different place from the cave, that they call “chimney” in their language; this is where they know they can find Philippa and Michael, and this is where the latter hope to find Iffe.

Their companion hasn’t been in the habit of disappearing in such a manner for weeks now. The change, in combination with their anxious behavior and the conspicuous wreck, troubles Philippa for the length of their walk. The recess has started, helping them in their progression, but Philippa’s knee throbs again from exertion.

Michael’s quietness is daunting by her side, a well of untold pain, that Philippa can only reach through quieter words even: “ _We’re almost there_ ”, “ _Follow me, Michael_ ”, “ _Hang on._ ” Her attention is required elsewhere, and after a while, the encouragements are thrown more for Philippa than Michael.

She thinks of the Human in that cockpit, in need of their help, perhaps in the hands of a disoriented Klingon and her legs work faster. 

At last, the familiar curve of the pass fades into view, followed by the comforting gap into the rock.

They are home.

And a group of Crepusculans is waiting for them, gesturing and purring ominously.

The board finds its place in the tunnel leading to the cave, while the four Crepusculans, Iffe, Assa and two others that Philippa isn’t familiar with, follow them guardedly into the cave. The place makes them uneasy, obviously, but they understand enough about the Humans to see that a sheltered environment is more comfortable to them.

Sitting on the side with Assa, Philippa takes a gulp of water and presses the canteen across her forehead, eyes set on Michael surrounded by the small group. The translator babbles, its video captor struggling with the words. Michael’s eyes widen as Philippa understands before the machine talks.

 _Fallen to the ground_. _From the sky._

That sign, however…

In a second, Philippa is on her feet, hurrying to Michael’s side. Despite Michael’s tireless work, the program needs refinement, particularly in its handling of visual input, and Michael has to switch between PADD and translator for adjustment.

Philippa’s eyes are not the only ones following her frantic typing.

“What does it mean?”

“Like us,” Michael utters, withdrawn. “They mean someone like us.”

“Like us? Philippa presses her, fretful.

Michael’s eyes look up, the distress across her forehead indicating that she noticed the ambiguity.

By Human standard one could hardly mistake a six feet tall Klingon with Philippa and Michael, yet to a Crepusculan eye, both are humanoid, bipedal, verbal species. Michael has not recorded enough vocabulary regarding the shapes and appearance of things to ask for a proper description.

Klingon or Human?

“Can you show us, Iffe?” Michael calls out for the translator. In front of the device, the bust of a blue silhouette materializes and launches into a sequence of gestures that Michael follows with rapt attention.

The xenoanthropologist already memorized an impressive amount of words, even if she cannot do without the inflections of the translator. On the contrary, Philippa has a better ear for the distinct variations of the Crepusculan cooing and ooing, but her limbs struggle to string the words into coherence.

_It is not like a dance._

Once the translation is delivered, the Crepusculan’s unrest increases.

“Did we get it wrong?” Philippa asks in alarm.

Michael denies vigorously.

“We have a good grasp of their pseudo interrogative.”

The agitation spreads among the group, attracting even quiet Assa’s attention, who stood in the background until then, studying the interior of the cave. After a minute of limbs dramatically raised and undulated, incompletely or incoherently translated, Philippa understands: the argument is between them.

Philippa leans across to whisper in Michael’s ear: “Do you think we should…”

Before Michael can shush her, Iffe turns back to them and talks. It takes several passes of the translator to approach a wording that would make sense in context.

“ _Another tribe caught the stranger._ ”

Oh, this isn’t good.

There should be no debate as to whether or not Philippa and Michael will help the pilot, Klingon or Human, but as they confer with the Crepusculans it appears coming to the rescue will prove a dilemma on its own.

The smaller of the unfamiliar visitors, Masso, must be some sort of messenger in their community, more informed of the comings and goings outside the tribe. According to them, the pilot is unwell, probably in critical condition, and in need of treatment that cannot be provided by aliens. Gesture by gesture, approximation by approximation, Masso makes Michael and Philippa understand that the Humans can enter the other community and they can ask about the stranger, but representatives from their own tribe have to come along and the other Crepusculans will not welcome two aliens at the same time.

_Come alone._

Philippa’s face falls as the translator renders that last part. A small _no_ draws past her lips, prompting a painful side glance from Michael. Her knuckles are white on the translator.

“There is too much uncertainty, too much danger,” Philippa argues to Iffe.

The situation is escaping them.

Assa, sensing Philippa’s distress, makes a sign of appeasement and produces a few peculiar notes.

“ _There is uncertainty for us. We still help.”_

Taking a grounding breath, Philippa casts a pleading look at Michael who can only shake her head feebly.

“Numbers matter on this world.”

Philippa’s jaws clench. _Right._ It is their duty to provide help to the pilot, whoever they are.

Three days’ walk to the other colony according to Iffe, without taking into account the slower pace of Humans, the negotiation to take back the stranger and the possible intervention to stabilize their state. And then she has to walk back with an injured Humanoid.

“I’ll go,” Philippa declares, looking straight onto Masso’s antennas to show her resolve. The Crepusculan bends their front limbs in answer.

“I have a better knowledge of the desert, as well as the Crepusculans.” Philippa’s head spins back to Michael. “It is logical for me to go in your place.”

Her officer stands rigid, attentive, staring back at her as if her words hold any logic.

“Do you really think I would let you face a _Klingon_ on your own?”

There is a strange determination to Michael’s face and posture, in sharp contrast to the fragile stillness of her distress earlier. Cold and shifting as the reflection of the moon on the water, deceptive. No one can catch it.

“I can take them, if needs be.”

Her voice bears no trace of doubt.

“We aren’t looking for a fight,” Philippa snaps, and she doesn’t regret it when she witnesses a spark, indefinite, in Michael’s eyes. “If the Humanoid is Klingon and wounded, our duty is to help them. I can take care of most injuries, including on Klingons.”

“The journey there and back will take six days at the minimum. My stamina on open sand is better than yours and you need rest after completing the board. I _have to_ go.”

 _Oh_ , she is absolutely regretting talking about their obligation to lend a hand now.

Philippa scoffs.

“Nonsense. I told you I can handle the work. Besides, administering first aid should be our priority.”

Michael narrows her eyes and smirks faintly; she won the argument, didn’t she? And Philippa cannot see how yet. Philippa’s steps led her so close to Michael that Philippa could lift her hand and shake Michael into reason.

“Except we can’t get our equipment to them,” Michael rasps, certain. “It will slow us down and the Crepusculans do not trust our technology. One translator is enough. Regenerators? Hypos? Water replicators?” Her head shakes slowly, reproving. “I have thought about it. _Our priority_ should be finding them, before we can heal them. Think about it.”

Philippa is thinking about it. And she sees that Michael is compromised, is trying to prove something to herself, is endangering her life, as usual. Months of a quiet life, nearly a year, while Philippa has witnessed Michael opening in a way she hadn’t before, perhaps starting to confront the ghosts of her past at a safe distance. The ghosts have come back.

She shouldn’t be going there at all, not after the confident touch of Michael along her spine, not after dreaming affectionate words in response to Michael’s more affectionate trust, but...

“As your Captain, I ord—“

In an instant, the serious mask on Michael’s face crumbles, exposing a raw disappointment. 

“Philippa, don’t,” Michael whispers. “I am doing this because it is logical.”

Philippa was waiting for the expression, but now that she sees it nested in Michael’s beautiful eyes and thinning her usually beaming lips, she falters.

Is she acting irrationally under the circumstances? There is possibly an enemy combatant on this world, from a species responsible for the death of Michael’s parents. Philippa knows her first officer’s outstanding self-control, but its limit as well.

Her brilliance, her empathy, her strength… Her Human-Vulcan stubbornness. If Michael sees the potential Klingon as a threat, she will not hesitate to kill them to protect the Crepusculans.

Philippa knows, deep down, that in this argument her concern for Michael’s well-being trumps everything Starfleet would require of her.

“Michael, your history with the Klingons... I cannot, in good faith, let you go.”

“My commitment to this course of action is not emotional.” Michael’s face twinges, as if thwarting an amusing thought. Philippa would love to know which one. “Philippa, I am not the same person I was ten months ago.”

She pauses, studying Philippa closely, the hard figure Philippa must cut at a moment when Michael needs her trust the most.

“As you are not the woman I met seven years ago,” Michael adds, tilting her head.

Yes, and Philippa thought she had more time to show Michael just how. To change like Michael, to flow in order to go with her. There lies her heart’s desire, the childish part that is currently cursing Starfleet and its war and its ideals. She wants to love Michael and it’s taking her too damn long.

Philippa doesn’t want to be the woman who leaves Michael behind, not anymore.

“You shouldn’t be doing this alone.”

 _“We plan to go with her,”_ the translator clamors between them.

Iffe steps forward, and Philippa blanches as she notices the device hasn’t been turned off. The group of Crepusculans followed the argument between Michael and Philippa religiously. What an object of study they must be to them.

“ _Michael is not alone_ ,” Assa adds. “ _The peoples from the Red Star are kind and stubborn. They would help you.”_

Turning to Philippa, Michael smiles awkwardly.

“There, I shall be safe. Assa will be with me the whole time.”

The fight has gone out of Philippa when she laments, “I don’t like this.”

Wrapped in her layers of protective clothing, Michael appears small despite the confidence of her posture. Exposed. The two Crepusculans towering her certainly do not help, but at least they bring reassurance that Michael, for all of Philippa’s despair, won’t be alone.

“Neither do I.” Something lurks behind her eyes, resigned. “Do you trust me?”

_How can she answer that now?_

Michael’s gaze lingers on Philippa, her face, comprehensive and kind, before Michael heaves a sigh and addresses the Crepusculans.

“How soon can we go?”

Their trills of relief fill the cave and soon a flurry of activity as supplies are packed, boots checked, maps updated. The storm still loiters for a few hours. The night will not set before ten hours. If they want a chance to save that pilot, they need to be on their way now.

Standing in the middle of the commotion, Philippa doesn’t move at first, occupied by a dread worse than she has experienced in months. Unable to fill a canteen, to stack rations or to offer a word of advice. Memmem, the fourth Crepusculan, is trying to put the washing bowl in Michael’s bag, unchecked. She has sent so many on away missions, sometimes with the knowledge that there was no coming back, often with absolute confidence in the skills that would prevent a clusterfuck.

She has hope, she has faith in Michael. This shouldn’t be any different.

Her fears are irrational.

_Illogical._

This is so very different.

Painfully, her limbs start, muscle memory taking over. Dispatching, preparing, moving.

Her duty is to protect, to help Michael, whatever the course she chooses. _No_. Not only her duty. Her affection compels her as well. She cannot trust the woman who shook her world so profoundly, she _loves_ her. Perhaps, it’s enough right now.

Forty minutes later, when Michael stands in the doorway, ready to go, flanked by Iffe and Assa, Philippa is at her side. 

Michael nods as a way of bidding her farewell, characteristically ceremonious. Philippa hesitates only a second.

She grabs Michael by the elbow, commanding.

“I am aware of why you are doing this, Michael. And I need you to come back in one piece, soul and body. Do not take unnecessary risks out there. Let Iffe and Assa take care of you.”

Grave, Michael presses her lips together.

“I will, Philippa.”

With her other hand, Philippa grazes the side of her jaw, and she can see Michael’s pupils blow out, her breath shortening. It would be evident to give her lips now, so that Michael has something to bring with her into the storm, something of her. Philippa may be a fool, but she isn’t a young one; chances are it would fluster Michael before what is going to be a long journey with a difficult encounter at the end. She is her captain, for now, she needs to be.

Instead, she presses her head against Michael’s forehead and blindly rests her hand on her hip. Gently, Michael pushes her body against hers, in search of immediacy. Her naked skin revolts at the rough layers of Michael’s trekking coat, when it seeks her warmth and proximity: the oval of her face and her fingers are the only part of her not covered. An arm wraps around her shoulder, and her fingertips skid across her bicep. Philippa turns away, burying the urge to give in into Michael’s neck.

She ought to feel proud of Starfleet and the fine officers it produces right now. She only feels terrified. 

They hold, for too long, and when Philippa takes a step back, she feels dizzy like after an EV walk.

Outside, the Crepusculans are getting impatient, a few curious individuals having joined the farewell party. Shands hurries to Philippa’s side, forcing Michael to step away from the narrow entrance.

There is so little to commit to memory, the hood and scarf and goggles and dust swallowing all the distinctive, lovely features of her face. Her intelligent mouth, her proud eyes, her Vulcan eyebrows are already tucked in a corner of Philippa’s mind. 

Michael lifts her goggles. The penetrating look Michael gives her over her shoulder drives a hook into her heart.

“Go save whoever fell from the sky,” Philippa calls out. “Friend or foe, they deserve our help. I’ll be here when you come back, ready to help. But come back, Michael, to _me_.”


	14. Volta do mar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael crosses the desert to help the wounded pilot, friend or foe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Volta do mar, volta do mar largo, or volta do largo (the phrase in Portuguese means literally turn of the sea but also return from the sea) is a navigational technique perfected by Portuguese navigators during the Age of Discovery in the late fifteenth century, using the dependable phenomenon of the great permanent wind circle, the North Atlantic Gyre."  
> (Source: [wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Volta_do_mar))
> 
> Sorry for the delay. It seems I have issues stopping myself when it comes to hiking chapters. Hope you enjoy this one!

A straight line.

The first feature her eyes identify when Michael wakes inside her sleeping bag is a straight line.

_Improbable._

Shaking off the fog of a dreamless night, she rubs her eyes, her forehead and neck, a feeling of unease clinging to her body. The cavity where she took shelter for the night is too low for her to sit up comfortably. She slithers out of the bag with difficulty, into the red dust, muscles stiff, vision blinded by the light.

Yesterday, they walked until dark, further even, Assa, Iffe, Masso, Felene and Michael. The adjustment from Crepusculan pace to Human pace took a while to achieve, all the more so that Crepusculans tend to travel higher, suspended on the rock face like mountain goats. After an hour, the creatures resigned themselves to trudging alongside, but even at a reduced speed Michael collapsed inside the most accessible nook she could find in the evening and fell asleep within minutes.

All for the best considering how the events from the day before left her off-balance.

Assa and Felene stand guard at the feet of the slight elevation Michael settled on, conversing in hushed gestures, probably unaware that Michael has woken up. With her goggles back on, the morning light changes to a workable haze, the harsh reflection from the rock face directly in front of her blinding her as capably as an eclipse.

Squinting up, she frowns.

Yes, it is a straight line, connected to several others, visible thirty meters in the air across the stone. Nature abhors lines.

Pushing herself off the ground, Michael rises, stretching to get a closer look.

Just under the upper edge of the rock face, a long sloping gallery runs for about fifty meters, wide pillars cutting through its height like irregular teeth. From the bottom of the pass with the permanent dust clouds, the formation would pass as an imperfection of the rock. In the morning light, the shadows appear too regular, tidy, and between them ochre shapes move about, springing freely.

It’s a village —people working, children playing— thirty meters off the ground.

Michael dashes down to where Assa is positioned, busy chewing on a dry root, and activates the translator.

“Are they your people?”

Following her gaze, the Crepusculan executes a series of gestures.

_"Masso’s colony. My family lives close to you.”_

Captivated, Michael nods, before she remembers she needs to vocalize her thoughts for Assa to pick up on her meaning.

“I see. Thank you.”

It would explain why Masso and Iffe are nowhere to be seen, when they are arguably, by function, the most likely to keep watch; they must have spent the night up there and consulted with other members of the community. The decision to leave for the other mountain range was taken in a rush yesterday, and if Philippa does not take kindly to the haste, Michael doubts a species as community-oriented as the Crepusculans will.

Philippa…

Michael cannot shake off her desolate expression when Philippa understood Michael had to go, her trembling fingers when they released Michael from her hug. Their life in the desert has gone at such a slow pace up to this point. One moment Michael was admiring Philippa, how much her friend had changed, had changed her, and the next Michael was on her way to an unknown settlement to offer help to what could well be—

 _“Michael should eat,”_ the translator sputters, and Michael gazes up to Assa peering attentively at her. _“We leave soon.”_

Right, her body requires sustenance and the road ahead is long.

Michael has not managed to approximate at what distance the other colony dwells. Although this area still belongs to the mountainous range they live in, this section is unknown to Michael. The walls rise high, much more encased than their well-known pass, the way opening to the west. In truth, she walks blindly behind the Crepusculans, all trusting when she possesses insufficient knowledge of their ways of living, of traveling.

They could well have underestimated the endurance of a Human, they could…

Assa’s eyes, their yellow iris and blind pupils, are staring, with their foreign kindness that Michael is learning to perceive.

A shudder passes over her skin. Michael is letting her emotions take over. Her trust in the Crepusculans remains complete, cemented by days upon days of talking and watching. They are considerate people, and stubborn. Had Philippa been here, she would have given her an acerbic remark, one involving Michael’s habit of flinging herself across large bodies of water and other fluids unsuitable for swimming. One that would have done a better job at centering Michael than her meanderings.

She has a task to perform; lives hang on it.

_Focus on what you know how to do._

Her eyes wander back to the suspended village.

“I won’t be long,” Michael offers as reassurance to Assa. “You should call for Iffe and Masso.”

Assa is already out of sight when she crawls back into her shelter and unpacks a ration to eat alone, her attention on the structure high above.

_How many villages did we walk by without noticing?_

Carved into the rock, high enough to be inaccessible to intruders. Wrong approach. They do not have predators here. Close enough to the plateaus where their egg sacs are secured, right on the rock face where they can progress with greater ease and speed.

Michael squints behind her goggles, biting into the slab of cranberry cereals that Saru must have picked.

When Philippa and Michael set the path to the plateau, they found the rock soft, not unlike sandstone, easy to hollow. The architecture nested inside the gallery appears complex, echoing the characters worn on their hood by some members of the community. Between the walls —building? columns? She cannot tell from this angle— ropes from Sherra plants hang. Solid material; they used it for their board, compressed and abraded. The overall layout doesn’t bear any similarity with construction elaborated by other insect-like species she has encountered, but it does resemble those of some bird-adjacent species.

New patterns and shapes.

There is no time to record them, but there will be other opportunities.

 _“Misha,”_ Felene calls from the bed of the canyon.

Michael hurries to finish her mouthful of berries, committing the inconspicuous village to memory before they hit the road. Her body at least has recovered from yesterday’s walk; breakfast or anthropological observation, it helped.

A member of Masso’s community, Lis, joins them for the journey. Smaller of frame, clad in plain garments, their youth appears evident the minute they start asking questions about Michael. The translator, Human ears and hands, how slow Michael walks, how much she misses her world; nothing is too prosaic for Lis, and the translating device can barely keep up.

Masso expresses clear exasperation but does not prevent their exchange from proceeding.

Skirting around the prime directive, Michael does her best to satisfy Lis’ curiosity. Her answers never expand beyond what they ask for precisely. Yet Michael does not have to subdue the charm of Vulcan or the stark beauty of Doctari Alpha, so disinclined her mind seems to delve on them.

Before the young Crepusculan’s enthusiasm, Michael experiences a pricking sensation in her chest, that twists and snaps and aches. Encouraging it would be unwise.

What awaits at the end of the journey hangs over every memory, every prospect.

Lis’ conversation, soon overseen by Felene, distracts her as they walk tirelessly, pausing for sustenance and rest at regular intervals. The wind blows strong now that they progress without the shield from the mounts. Her steps have to be fought for and the sand gives out under her feet. Their path appears still far easier than Michael estimated. The Crepusculans must possess an intrinsic knowledge of the wind cartography Philippa and Michael have been trying to establish.

 _“Sasshrill,”_ Iffe whirrs in her direction at some point after midday, interrupting Lis’ second attempt at asking about Human noses, and Michael glances behind her with uncertainty.

The rock formation they have been inhabiting for the past nine months stares back at her, its long carmine bulk fading at last from view in the winding desert.

“Sasshrill?” Michael repeats, widening her eyes at the group of travelers.

 _“Home,”_ Assa clarifies and turns away to resume their journey.

Another pluck at her heart, cruel. Having lost her home, perhaps the Shenzhou as well, how can she drag these peaceful beings toward possible destruction?

But such a question instantiates both her current sentimentality and avoidance: destruction is always here. The attack on her parents happened during peacetime and without cause. How could she possibly believe that Philippa, the Crepusculans and she would remain safe in the middle of an armed conflict?

 _“Misha,”_ Assa fizzes melodiously, tearing Michael out of her thoughts. _“Let us walk.”_

Five pairs of patient yellow gazes are trained on her, waiting for her to follow. Sixty-seven kilometers away, Philippa must be repairing the sandboard, chatting with Shands or soaking roots for dinner. _Safe._

Ahead, an uncertainty she _has to_ pursue. 

Michael pulls on the straps of her bag to readjust it and starts walking straight ahead.

 

Having completed an eight-hour day, they stop like clock-work, although the night has not come yet. Assa and Iffe shelter Michael from the wind as they set camp in the naked desert.

Pressed between the Crepusculans and a scanty boulder overlooked by an isolated “son of sand”, Michael zips up her sleeping bag. The heat emanating from the creatures negates the need for the cover, but Michael does not inform the Crepusculans of this detail. Despite the intense luminosity, the warmth is making her doze off while the taciturn Masso elaborates on where they are heading at last. The translator enters yet another unknown field of semantics: different rock formations are home to different tribes, even if they all share the well, sacred ground.

“We didn’t know it was sacred ground,” Michael exclaims, suddenly awake.

The device conveys the message, imperfectly, enough for Iffe to ponder a second before answering in a series of signs and thrills. They talk so close to Michael that she can feel the vibration from the organs responsible for the sounds produced.

 _“It is sacred ground because it holds water.”_ Iffe’s rounder eyes flicker closed, one, two times. _“You brought water back.”_

A gasp escapes Michael’s lips. “We ensured the continuity of the sacred.”

Michael gazes back with awe at Masso, who signs their approval.

“Sacred” is not the right concept, given what appears to be the religious structure of this community. “Protected”, “primordial”, “belonging”. Possibly the Vulcan word "vai" would approximate the sign better.

_Holy._

_Vai._

_Lucky._

Sleep claims her as the words roll in her mind, clinking together like marbles.

_Philippa’s laughter, far._

_Its modulations are morphemes, words, syntagmas, sentences._

_Progressing in a grey mist, Michael looks for her, the source of her voice._

_Water lapping at the shore near her, the sonorous knock of boats against each other, birds high above._

_Is it the marina on Pulau Langkawi where they went with Philippa’s uncle?_

_The harbor she crossed with her parents on her way to the Canadian Festival of Pyrotechnic Art?_

_The voice escapes her, floating overhead._

_It’s Philippa’s weather kite._

_A dog barks._

_The wind blows between strings._

_Not even a shadow stains the blank opaqueness._

_She looks for Philippa._

_She looks for Philippa._

_She looks for Philippa._

_For Philippa._

 

When her eyes open to the Crepusculan night, speckled with distant lightning, the absence of Philippa by her side stuns her. Her fingers caress the sand where Philippa should have been lying. The largeness of the cave demanded chats might be conducted in close quarters after a while, after a confession or two.

They talk and sleep near now.

She has grown accustomed to waking up next to Philippa. 

In a tight circle around her, the Crepusculans fret already, having produced food from their satchels, and silently encourage Michael to do the same. Another day of walking toward fate. Another white, exhausted night that she feels she snatches away from her disquiet.

Crossing the windy, naked plains, Masso shows more effusiveness than before, encouraged by Lis. Their expertise in the desert provides precious information to Michael when the translator conveys the message appropriately. In the absence of a log, her mind works to record and classify every precious custom and path disclosed. Michael listens, warding off her fears with their words, her weariness with their enthusiasm.

She is relieved to be the one enduring this trial.

A little after the five-hour mark, Assa falls behind after coming across a net of low cactus Michael has never seen before. Lis runs ahead and gestures for Masso to get a closer look at a rock formation. Michael remains alone with Iffe and Felene.

 _“Afraid?”_ Iffe asks, padding closer.

“Afraid.”

Reading Human expression has always been challenging, their projected significance often contradicted by context. Humans give away too much with their face, either by reacting or not reacting; each individual comes with their own sets of rules concerning when and how to interpret such variations. Many species Michael worked with lacked the facial manipulability of Humanoids, allowing for a cleaner slate.

When Iffe asks using the sound used for concern, Michael knows they mean it.

_“Michael and Philippa were not afraid, are not and would not.”_

"Never" is the word the program is circling.

“We don’t say it,” she corrects. “But we often are.”

Iffe shakes their head, a word in their language —dust. Michael finds the concept appropriate, given how unreliable her thoughts are.

_“Peoples of dust say it to avoid hurt.”_

Would it have benefitted the situation had Michael expressed her fears to Philippa? Michael shared a great many details of her life with Philippa, truths and weaknesses, but Michael’s burden should not be Philippa’s. Her parents’ death should have been overcome years ago: this reality alone prevents her from opening about it. As well as providing help to someone in need, this is her chance to confront her foolish fears at last. Philippa’s concern slowed them enough before the long journey.

The pilot could be dead already.

“Yes, mistakes are made in fear,” Michael replies in a flat voice.

_“No. Fear kept inside brings hurt. Water needs to flow, fear needs to flow. It cannot stagnate.”_

Assa comes back bearing cactus juice in their flask, Masso and Lis make a display of a slender being with the general appearance of a horned slow worm. As the group welcomes their findings with excitement, already pushing forward, Michael considers Iffe’s words, a healer by trade, although not a proficient one according to themselves. They diagnosed Michael accurately.

Her breath stutters.

Rising in her chest, the distinct feeling of disgust spreads, after hours, days of simmering. A Klingon could be here, and resting with them concerns that Michael buried for the better part of her life.

She did make her decision based on fear. Fear of what a Klingon could do to Philippa and the Crepusculans. Old fear, kept inside.

Kept secret.

If Michael grasped all there was to know about a foreign culture through the prism of anthropology, could her terror still be an emotion? Could it not be the cold-eyed appreciation of a martial, distrustful species?

It is not. Her decision was emotional, a consequence of that single, illogical evening that changed her life and planted seeds that she is only now seeing bloom.

Fear.

What else?

A diffuse sensation that differs from the one inhabiting her right now as she walks into the unknown with strange friends. The two can be isolated quite clearly.

It could not be hatred for the Klingons, but rather a one-sidedness to her vision that is blinding, more so that she is at heart an anthropologist. Philippa has unwittingly encouraged it at first, in her admiration for Starfleet and its ways. An unfortunate consequence of living in a peaceful system.

But then, and this is what Michael was trying to understand about Philippa the other day, she let Michael embrace what was Vulcan, what was human, perhaps just as unwittingly. But she did. How could she understand the duality of Michael’s being? Yet she never punished her for being Vulcan, never celebrated her for being Human. Intrigued to see her run her course. The seed planted, Michael as a challenge, blossomed into something different.

It blossomed into love.

And what it brought to Michael, brings even here in this blind walk, is clarity. Pursuing her reasoning straight ahead, rather than halting at the complexity of the relief, rather than taking side roads under the pretense of exploration brought her back to where it started. Philippa stopped seeing Michael as a challenge, but Michael never stopped seeing the Klingons as a threat.

She studied their languages, their culture, even their fears. She still beholds them through the eyes of the girl she was, terrorized and sobbing.

Yes, she does hate the Klingons.

The pilot could be already dead, and if they are Klingon, Michael would rather they were dead.

Her jaws are clenched so tightly that her head hurts. 

Urged by Michael’s uncommunicativeness, Lis and Masso pick up a pace, climbing higher on the rock face, leaping elegantly and lightly from asperity to asperity. Her heart weighs inside her like a plumb line.

She trails on, turning over her discovery in her mind. A decision taken in fear; this is what will put the Crepusculans in danger.

Her situation stood clearer a few months ago when a risky and solitary endeavor was nothing more than a challenge. Now, her approach to risky situations could directly stem from her ignorance of the consequences and her compromised feelings. It is not assurance to dismiss warning signs.

It is now vital that she looks into herself. How can she protect the Crepusculans otherwise?

Before the end of the day, they reach another mountain range, similar in shape to Sasshrill. The density of living appears to be higher here. Michael’s breath hitches each time she spots another village holding onto the rock, elevated and uniform enough for Michael and Philippa to miss them from the wind-beaten bottom of the pass. They walk even longer, well into Michael’s usual period of rest to reach the sought after Crepusculan territory.

When they get arrested at the feet of an impressive village carved low in the stone, weariness washes off Michael’s muscles in a second. Her presence and torch are causing quite the commotion above. Curious eyes are gawking over the edge into the now darkened pass. Assa and Iffe close ranks protectively around Michael.

The differences with her Crepusculans could not be more evident as Michael considers the group conversing two meters away from her with the guard: a little smaller and broader than the average creature, their skin of a more saturated yellow, contrasted beautifully by strikingly tinted clothes; ultramarine blue, like Saru’s roots, _Sherra._

Different cultures spreading across an area not even two hundred kilometers wide. How fascinating.

Masso gestures her to come closer flanked by Assa and Iffe. Tense, Michael surveys the guard as they listen to Masso, waiting for an invitation to talk. She slips in an earbud to follow the conversation without exposing the aliens to the translator’s vituperations this early and conceals the device directed at the warden into the folds of her robe.

Her wait stretches into a long minute as she watches Iffe and Masso argue to the other impassive Crepusculan’s face. A faint light catches her attention in the heights of the village, blue and unreal. The shadows fly in the night, the curious inhabitants whose life has been disturbed by a strange creature who fell from the sky and who only now are offered an explanation.

Do they believe in the demons and angels of old Christianity? In omens and spirits?

_Let it be Spock. Let it be a friendly face._

His childish frown manifests in her mind, pleading her to go with her, once with T'El, another time in the desert. She didn't let him follow then and it nearly cost her life. Shame settling in, Michael wards off the image with probabilities.

Spock is stubborn enough to go find her in the middle of political conflicts. Even Sarek. She couldn’t possibly imagine anyone on the _Shenzhou_ disregarding orders to rescue two officers equipped and trained for the desert, but they have surprised her in the past.

Futile hopes. Spock has been posted too far away. Sarek hasn’t contacted her. Her crew hasn’t found them.

A dark cloud of pseudo bats breaks the quiet hush of the night and flies into a cavity, causing Masso to interrupt themselves to glance up in alert. A group of four Crepusculans springing from the shadows pursues them in silence.

If the pilot is a Klingon, Michael doesn’t know how she will react, and in itself, this is a capitulation of logic, of humanity.

An inexact assessment: she knows how she ought to act, but her emotions introduce a factor that could potentially render her knowledge moot.

Starfleet core beliefs dictate pacifism based on equality of treatment for all, regardless of antecedents. But Klingons have antecedents, and by Vulcan logic, Michael should consider them ill-intented. They have no business here, particularly with a raider.

How to navigate her duty to serve and protect in these circumstances?

She takes a long, steadying breath.

Much time was spent trying to understand the Crepusculans, but they had existed alongside long before they grasped what could bind them. Could she ever understand the Klingons? What nefarious reason could have pushed them to this remote corner of the galaxy? Intellectually, she could understand them, but her logic isn’t enough to rid her of her mistrust. 

She _hated_ Vulcans after the attack, hated Humans after her first shift on the _Shenzhou_.

She reasoned through her emotions, with her unrefined, wide-reaching logic as a child, with her avid, compact rationality as an officer. She never looked back on the Klingons, never dares to. They exist like a dense theoretical object at the edge of her emotions, only to be reached by her studies. Or so she thought.

Now is time to cast her eyes on them in the flesh, for the first time since… She never saw them that night.

In her nightmares the Klingons that came into her family’s kitchen would bear from now on the pilot’s face forever, having been deprived of one for more than twenty years.

Philippa had seen right through her. She still let her go.

Was her trust in Michael this blind? Or did she see something different in her decision, something different than hatred and fear?

Her name is called in a foreign voice, in rounder purrs. Michael looks down from the village to see that after what seems like an eternity of listening to what exactly Michael and Philippa and the other one are, where they come from and how they communicate, the other Crepusculan is studying her.

 _“Misha,”_ they try again, unsure.

But instead of the welcoming gestures she learned and rehearsed precisely for that moment, the creature launches into a dance she cannot understand for the life of her.

Embarrassed, she casts a glance at her companions, her mind reeling. They understand the guards’ words, so there must be similarities or a base that she cannot identify. Same words; different meanings.

Dialects? Or a distinct language?

After almost three days at her side, Assa has grown aware of Michael’s body language. They understand the situation quickly and start translating for Michael. The result crackling in her ear sounds horrendous, the translation of a translation, but it will do.

_“Here stands Cleos from Linssall. Cleos knows for what reason you are here and transfers to you many welcomes.”_

Michael signs her answer as best as she can and expresses her gratitude and well wishes. It is impossible to tell from Cleos’ expression if she earned their approval, but they start walking away in the village’s direction.

 _“Come see the one who fell from the sky,”_ Masso beckons her. 

_Easy to say._

Despite its lower situation, the village hangs from the cliff face at about six meters with no foot access in sight. Michael is about to call the group back and request a rest before the ascension when Lis simply lifts her off the ground with their front limbs and soars through the air.

Michael has barely any time to register her mode of travel that she is already deposited at the edge of the gallery.

“Th-thank you,” she says, dazed, before signing it to Lis.

The young Crepusculan acknowledges her word before joining the others already on their way to a distinctive construction on the side of the gallery. Around her, the space appears shallower than she expected, structured around a flat semi-circle looking toward the outside. Teeth-like buildings board the perimeter faintly lit by fluorescent fungus around their entrance. Every wall, bench, pillar has been carved from the same red stone in the mountain range.

The eyes that surveyed her before have scurried away. The dark village has filled with whispers. Michael straightens as she follows in her companions’ footsteps.

The house they enter rises high from the ground, an acute roof with blind hexagonal overtures on its front. Around the door frame passed in a hurry, Michael spots familiar characters and patterns. Inside a wide naked corridor cuts the building in half, diagonally, interspersed with several doors, all obscured by fabric. Despite the orientation of the structure, the wind faintly blows in her ears. This must be a healing house.

 _“This way,”_ Assa signs.

Her fingers twitch under the feeling of a dozen pins; her mouth chews on dryness.

She hasn’t experienced such definite incertitude regarding her ability to pass a test since the Vulcan learning center.

Fear of herself and her judgment. She cannot remove herself from the situation to solve it. She needs to change her mind about what her prejudices would let her do. She wants to believe she can.

_What will she do if the pilot is a Klingon?_

The question is exhausting.

She wants a certitude for once. She wants to allow herself to be comforted in Philippa’s hands, by the patient and sarcastic smile that probes and accompanies her, the trust that allows them to save so many even apart. She wants to share this wound and this victory with her.

_Soul and body. I have to come back from this._

What a preposterous challenge Michael sets herself.

Several Crepusculans are introduced to her in the corridor. She greets them unconsciously, subserviently. One of them pushes to the side the fabric hanging from one of the doors, and she sees—

Laughter threatens to explode from her chest.

On the floor of the small room, the face peering from under a wet cloth is Human, skin a deep reddish-brown clammy with sweat, long black hair secured at the back of the head, elegant aquiline nose above proud lips held tightly in sleep.

_Human and beautiful._

Relief floods Michael’s heart and for a minute she can do nothing but stare at the woman and everything she embodies. The battered insignia of operations shines on her slowly rising chest, with it her duty and convictions; helping others, understanding the world, pushing science forward.

_Known territory._

But her Starfleet uniform gapes on her slender frame, singed and bloodied, telling of a considerate weight loss. Having not been exposed to Philippa and Michael, these Crepusculans have no knowledge of Human needs. 

Her mind springs into action, recalling every recommendation Philippa gave her.

Swiftly, Michael falls to her knees beside the lost traveler and casts a grateful look toward Iffe who purposefully puts their hefty figure between Michael and the other Crepusculans. There is no telling what introducing technology this early to them within their community would provoke.

She takes a deep breath.

Philippa has explained in concise, simple terms what Michael had to do to check and stabilize her state with the minimum intervention of technology.

Breathing. But unresponsive. Pulse weak. But stable.

Her hands move to open the vest and land on the insignia.

Ribs cracked in several places, legs broken, all improperly healed. She must have tried to eject from the ship. Michael could take care of the ribs here, but the twisted tibias would need Philippa’s hands. Making her comfortable and travel-safe appears to be the only option.

Multiple deficiencies; anemia, vitamins A and C. They have pills for all that, thanks to Doctor Nambue. However, the pilot shows no signs of dehydration or infection, a remarkable feat given how above-average her temperature registers.

Michael arches an eyebrow at the readings.

_Regrettable._

“Did they feed her something?” she whispers into the translator.

Iffe hunches over the device and signs: _“They gave her pebble juice.”_

Not helpful, but according to the readings her body has assimilated the foreign medication well enough. Philippa would need to perform a thorough analysis of internal damage or addictive effect, but right now, having her sedated is preferable.

Michael sits back on her legs, chest deflating.

The last surge of energy she mustered to check on the pilot has extinguished, leaving her aching and wishing for sleep as profound as the one of the woman before her.

There is a rustle at her side, and Michael identifies a few of the Crepusculans from earlier talking to Masso and Iffe.

“ _Would health be possible_?” the device whispers in her ear as Iffe translates for them.

The woman lies, quiet, motionless. 

If Michael hadn’t spent so much time analyzing the medicinal properties of the plants they gathered, she would deem the pilot’s survival a miracle. The Crepusculans, despite their confusion before this creature’s anatomy, managed to administer antibiotics and analgesics or the equivalent. The stranger appears at no risk of developing septicemia, a great relief given their battered state.

“Perhaps.”

The Crepusculans from Sasshrill do not understand the translation.

“We will try to heal them,” Michael amends, weary. Anticipation drained her more than sustained hiking did. “We know their body.”

Iffe considers the group from Linssall and answers without translating to them: _“Death needs to be honored. You personally cannot honor them.”_

That feeling she experienced while Lis was rambling about their home is turned upside down, somehow, in her chest, taking her breath away, like a particularly warm hug, a silent smile after a trying day. In fact, it doesn’t take. It holds something in her, deep.

_They know nothing about us, they fear us, yet would honor our dead._

Rationally, she knows the phenomenon is fairly common across sentient species. Sensitively, she has a whole room of people invested in the pilot’s well-being and it moves her. It reminds her of the _Shenzhou_ , of home.

_Not exactly._

It makes her miss what she never allowed herself to experience among the people she _loves_. For a Vulcan, these attentions were time-wasting; for a Human, trivial.

Shaking her head, she bites back her emotions.

“Yes, that’s why we try to heal them.” Her voice rings hollow, not matching the beauty of Iffe’s gestures. “Tell them they should let us try. So that death will not happen. We know her body better. She is safe now.”

 _“We help,”_ Masso states simply. There is such evidence painted across their face.

Gathered in a semi-circle around the pilot and Michael, the Crepusculans from Sasshrill and Linssall behold her gravely.

A yawn escapes her, damning, that she cannot repress in time.

Assa takes it as a cue to usher most of the party out of the room. Michael will rest here to keep an eye on the pilot, but she has no illusion that she will be sleeping for the next nine hours at least. Iffe is already finding a spot against the wall in front of the pilot’s bed and Lis comes back with two more cots that Michael promptly disposes on the floor.

As she prepares to go slip into her sleeping bag, one of the Crepusculans from Linssall enters the room carrying a plate with small steaming cups. Late night snack, according to Iffe.

In her exhaustion, Michael immediately accepts the hot food they offer for herself.

“Not her.” She prevents the Crepusculan from giving the thick beverage to the pilot. “She is weak and needs appropriate sustenance.”

The creature snorts and bows their head before exiting with the last cup.

Michael recognized the sign.

_Temperamental healer._

A smile creeps on her dry lips, the first in days. Across the room, Lis and Iffe are watching her over their beverage, knowing. None of them needs to exchange a word.

Working with the Crepusculans has allowed her to go back to a system, a classification —their language had to be recreated for her before she can understand it: a trill, the past; a growl, not the past. As a language, it does not possess many tools to express change.

There are _us_ and _not us_.

There is the part of her life where she discounted her hatred for the Klingons and the part where she could begin to live with it.

There is the part of her life where she isn’t in love with Philippa and the part where she is. In trying to reconcile those with Philippa’s behavior, she realizes: in the now that isn’t the future or the potential, there is nothing Philippa can do to change her love. Now isn’t forever, but the potential or the expected doesn’t relate to the present the way past does to it. She cannot uproot Philippa.

A discrete, circular language.

The liquid tastes sweet, its viscosity and warmth comforting on her tongue, not disagreeable. Distantly related to cardamom, hazelnut and nougat.

She will ask tomorrow what the ingredients are, what the name of the beverage is.

Her hand is resting on the pilot’s shoulder, the dull rag that once represented Starfleet covering her chest. The badge shines as dully as her ashen face and Michael traces the name with hope. _Commander Ellen Landry, it is an honor to meet you._  Her breathing comes out weak, its amplitude disappointing, but steady. By now Michael has memorized it, ready to guard even the most minute variation for the rest of their long journey.

Tomorrow.

Her body is sinking into the mattress.

She is coming back.


	15. Mercury Beating Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waiting for Michael, Philippa has a conversation with a Crepusculan about fundamentals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for drug use in a medical context.

_Oh, this is so very wrong._ ****  
** **

Childish glee prods at Philippa’s mind, disturbing the anxious torpor she has been inhabiting for the past few days. ****  
** **

Hunched over the trunk, Shands pushes on the button and the washing bowl unfolds in a series of clicks; the triangular tassels slip easily in answer to the delicate web of magnetic fields generated across the surface. Such a pliable mechanism was a novelty at the turn of the twenty-second century before replicators made them obsolete. To a bored Crepusculan, this must look like magic. ****  
** **

“ _Does it — light?_ “ ****  
** **

Shands’ enthusiastic untranslated gestures prompt Philippa to shake her head despondently. ****  
** **

“It’s an invisible force.” Stepping away from the supplies she is organizing, Philippa jumps on her two feet to demonstrate. “Like what keeps us on the ground.” ****  
** **

If Shands gets the meaning of her words they do not indicate it. Instead, they lean closer to the bowl and investigate the gadget as it pleats onto itself repeatedly. ****  
** **

_It’s not exactly a breach of the prime directive, is it?_ ****  
** **

Michael and Philippa have been careful as to minimize the extent to which the Crepusculans have been exposed to their technology. The phasers, the translators, the relay and the lights —they couldn’t be helped given the harsh environment and the necessity for the castaways to reach space; by Starfleet standard, this is _naughty_ . ****  
** **

“ _I like it_ ,” Shands declares at last through the translator. “ _A gift_ ?” ****  
** **

Philippa opens her mouth hesitantly. ****  
** **

Michael warned her about engaging in certain practices without being offered first and knowing what they meant. Basic precautions. No situation so far has allowed Philippa to determine whether generalized reciprocity is practiced by this species. The Crepusculans did offer help to Michael for her journey, without expectation for immediate reward, but an object could bear more significance. ****  
** **

Between Shands’ front claws, the bowl appears diminutive even before it completes folding, like the tourist trinkets that Anton collects on shore leaves. Most of them break after a year, and the good Doctor patches them together affectionately. ****  
** **

Gamble or reciprocation, Philippa doubts a bowl will cause much trouble. ****  
** **

“You can take it.” ****  
** **

Cooing, Shands pockets the triangular prism and sits back to studiously follow Philippa’s chores. ****  
** **

The first day, when they showed up in the cave entrance as Philippa was washing her clothes, their watchful eyes unnerved her: the cave had remained a sanctuary for Philippa and Michael, only visited by the Crepusculans in case of an emergency like a trunk or a humanoid dropped from the sky. ****  
** **

After her first night alone, spent staring at Michael’s empty spot, and the crueler breakfast, when she distractedly poured the morning brew into a second cup, Philippa relished in Shands’ arrival around midday. ****  
** **

She isn’t alone with Michael’s absence. ****  
** **

Her apprehension is manageable as long as she keeps her hands busy: there is a sandboard to hollow, a garden to tend to, food to stock in preparation for the party’s return —who knows in what state and with who?— and medical equipment to prepare. Presently, stacking clay pots proves an efficient distraction. Most of them are filled with seeds and dried roots ready for consumption, but the larger models hold water for cooking and washing purposes. ****  
** **

Philippa hopes to employ them to clean wounds and refresh tired limbs soon. ****  
** **

Her eyes fall shut as her lips mouth a silent prayer. ****  
** **

“ _Michael will come back with another one like you_ ,” Shands reflects in the neutral tone of the translator. “ _Or not like you_ .” ****  
** **

Explaining to them what the pilot could be took the better part of yesterday. Philippa weighed the pros and cons of introducing the concept of other species at length before doing so, but informing the Crepusculans of another potential stranger on their world took precedence. After all, they do not identify Philippa and Michael as coming from space as they do this visitor. ****  
** **

Sovereignty over order is her call. ****  
** **

“A Klingon or a Human.” ****  
** **

“ _Klinngonn_ ,” Shands repeats after her. ****  
** **

The consonants bounce in their beak as if they were strange berries, escaping their choppers and melting in their mouth. The Crepusculans do not fear the Klingons and merely experience a profound curiosity for them. ****  
** **

Unlike Michael. ****  
** **

“Yes.” ****  
** **

Philippa adjusts the lid over the last clay pot, curling a fist on the jagged surface. Michael’s face when she first saw the wreck in the desert haunts her. Despite her First Officer’s Vulcan education, she wears her heart on her sleeve, the beats of sadness or pride distinct and identifiable with experience. ****  
** **

Michael may be biased against Klingons, but she is also Vulcan, equipped with a perspective Philippa learned to use to her advantage. ****  
** **

“Dangerous,” Philippa concludes, half superstitious, half dismayed. ****  
** **

Shands’ front limbs undulate characteristically, the gesture now familiar to Philippa. ****  
** **

“ _Again_ ?” the translator unnecessarily parrots. ****  
** **

“Dangerous. It means they can do us harm or kill us.” ****  
** **

It does not mean they will. Philippa has no intention to fire first, yet hostilities have broken outside and caution is not a fool’s errand. There is a system behind her concern, even if she’s aware that she would not have been as straightforward a few months back. ****  
** **

The Crepusculan leans forward, their alien façade undecipherable. ****  
** **

“ _The long storm can bring death to us._ ” ****  
** **

“To an extent like that.” ****  
** **

Contrary to what their timorous nature might suggest, the Crepusculans do not have natural predators in this world. War might be a concept as foreign to them as the sea. How could they fathom an army of blind ships raining death on tranquil civilians? Orders received, executed —and the trail of bodies in their wake, assailants and assailed mingled? ****  
** **

With its lack of intent, a storm is kinder than war. ****  
** **

Michael disappeared in the storm. ****  
** **

Philippa shakes her head. ****  
** **

“They are stronger than us and not always well-disposed. But we don’t know why they would come here. They could be kind.” ****  
** **

They also could be Human, in which case caution is still not a fool’s errand. ****  
** **

“ _We are stronger than you_ ,” Shands remarks and their words ring with a semblance of apology in the translator’s even tone. ****  
** **

“Yes, you are.” ****  
** **

It took Philippa years to come to terms with her feelings regarding the despicable individuals she had to rescue at times; a Cardassian wounded by the weapon he had used to blow to smithereens a civilian village; a Human angrily ranting at the Betazoids trying to help her after her ship had crashed during a space _safari_ ; soldiers from different parts of the quadrants, some young and brainwashed, others older and passionate. The impulse to let them die had been there. She struggled with it, double-checked her impartiality and the auto-sutures. ****  
** **

This is what awaits Michael if the pilot is a Klingon — _if_ . Philippa has to trust Michael as she trusts herself.  ****  
** **

How much of her will Michael sacrifice to succeed? ****  
** **

_Caution_ , not hopelessness, Philippa repeats to herself.

 

 

In the evenings, Philippa gathers sand in her hands and cleans her skin after Michael’s example. Mechanically, her palms press and knead the soreness out of her soles and the strain in her legs caused by the constant squatting necessary to sail, clean, or work. ****  
** **

She unfolds muscle after muscle, discipline nudging her toward another day. Her body and mind are prepared for an experiment ever repeated; command, control —wait. ****  
** **

Tonight, when she reaches her neck, her hand fans over her eyes and refuses to go forward. ****  
** **

Her breath hiccups in her throat, refusing to still or flow. ****  
** **

_Why did she let Michael go?_ ****  
** **

Why does she have the persistent need, backed with stratagems and responsibilities, to watch Michael be carried away as Philippa stays? What kind of complacency can justify her control? Why is her terror? ****  
** **

The questions have been rolling in her mind for what seems an eternity, stirring the depth and dragging to the surface memories and struggles from before she was the woman she is. Layers of defeats and webs of mistakes overlay her rationale like sediments; she turned them into wedges and anchors with the years.  ****  
** **

They keep her down when she needs to soar. ****  
** **

Not _need_ . That’s a lie. _Want_ . ****  
** **

Happiness has always been secondary to service. The future is cast out before her like a web, opportunities swimming in-between. She knows where and when to pull if ever there is room for contentment. Michael has been a current Philippa tailed and angled for years, in the hope to contain her. Now, who’s uprooted? Philippa never planned on falling in love with Michael and loving her means trapping her. ****  
** **

Her love could have kept Michael at her side or endangered the mission. ****  
** **

The air draft wells raspingly in billows of dust and light. Quivering, Philippa can feel the ghost of Michael’s hands across her back. The weight of her fingertips hangs on her flesh. She’ll never get rid of it now. ****  
** **

Is freedom from her the best Philippa can give to Michael?

 

 

Philippa is five days into her wait when Shands interrupts their work on a rope in the pass to look at her with uncharacteristic intensity. Undeterred, Philippa continues clearing the entrance from the slide that occurred in the night.  ****  
** **

She is used to Keyla’s and Jira’s studious stare, to Nambue long-suffering scowl and Michael’s heavy gazes are starting to make sense. It comes with the job. She can handle a new species judging her in silence. ****  
** **

“ _Michael goes in the same direction as you go_ .” ****  
** **

Philippa is confused for a second, before resigning herself to request another translation. Jogging to the spot where she secured the device, she quickly signs her incomprehension to the patient creature and recalibrates the field of semantics. ****  
** **

“ _Michael holds you dear_ ,” the correction comes. ****  
** **

_Oh, they are talking about feelings._ ****  
** **

“She does,” Philippa acknowledges, voice level. ****  
** **

The broomstick sheds a little more with each sweep, the domesticated twigs mixing with the vegetal debris scattered across the path. ****  
** **

“ _Do you hold her dear_ ?” ****  
** **

Her answer springs without hesitation. ****  
** **

“I do. I want to.” ****  
** **

But _want_ and _ability_ are different. Working out her limitations with aliens who may have no frame of reference for these concepts and feelings may prove the oddest expedient she has used in years, but it is certainly healthier than self-imposed isolation. ****  
** **

“We have ideals, duties, that keep us from going in the same direction. Invisible forces.” ****  
** **

Leaning on the stick, she struggles for words. Did Michael even program the translator to navigate feelings? Did she parse them out into a hundred categories and subcategories?

Vulcan approach to feelings, she found, relies on precision and earnestness to control themselves. Philippa lacks such experience. ****  
** **

It is no self-deprecation, merely clarity about her shortcomings.  ****  
** **

“In truth, I doubt my affection would do Michael good,” Philippa concedes in defeat. ****  
** **

Shands pauses at the translation. The wind gusts uselessly between Philippa and them for several moments before the Crepusculan answers. ****  
** **

“ _Air water_ .” ****  
** **

Philippa furrows her brows and draws closer to Iffe. “What is it?” ****  
** **

“ _Life_ .” ****  
** **

Before Philippa’s lack of response, Shands wafts the air repeatedly in exasperation and signs with eagerness. ****  
** **

“ _The water of the air_ ,” the translator enunciates. “ _Stars under earth_ .” ****  
** **

One point is certain: Crepusculans are much more sensitive to variation in body language and expression than Humans are to them. Or at least they learn quicker than Philippa. ****  
** **

“ _You don’t understand. Small fires in the air, alive_ .” ****  
** **

A profile materializes in Philippa’s mind, drawn screen-blue against the dark background of their cave —Michael describing in precise terms what the tricorder had caught of the floating lights that caused them such harm on their arrival under the mountains. ****  
** **

“The strange spores? They were in here!” ****  
** **

Shands signs their approval. ****  
** **

“ _Most sacred_ .” ****  
** **

A light apprehension washes over her as she realizes they probably established their home in a revered place. It explains the emptiness of the cavity but unwittingly puts them in danger, depending on this civilization’s sense of the sacred. Michael has a better grasp of what she suspects their system of belief to be and of course, she’s not there. ****  
** **

“They are likely spores, from unknown mushrooms,” Philippa starts carefully, trying to summon Michael’s distant explanations. “Although they have a dual nature that Michael’s readings cannot parse out.” ****  
** **

Several blanks in the translation occur, and Iffe considers her at length before answering. ****  
** **

“ _They are life, they live around us_ .” ****  
** **

The clarification comes as a relief. The Crepusculans spreading the trunk with the spores before leaving it with Michael and Philippa makes suddenly more sense. ****  
** **

“So they are a subject of veneration _and_ celebration.” Philippa shakes her head at the realization. “Incredible.” ****  
** **

Shands wobbles on the spot, obviously discontent. ****  
** **

“ _We believe_ .” ****  
** **

No more diplomatic incident. She’s never been this gauche after her first week in tactical, and that was decades ago. But then, they are living among the Crepusculans, in a sacred cave where General Order One doesn’t apply. ****  
** **

“Yes, I meant no offense…” Philippa corrects herself. “You believe. It is an expression, a saying.” ****  
** **

Shands stalks nearer, their hunched form never rising above Philippa. ****  
** **

“ _Air water does not dictate our actions; it inspires, it shows. It cannot stop us_ .” ****  
** **

Shands is comparing them to duty. ****  
** **

The realization startles Philippa.  ****  
** **

Starfleet is a system that has turned to a belief. Even before joining Starfleet, she promised herself that she would never let it come down to that. Duty should always be about serving people, not systems. Perhaps she has drawn from and assimilated Starfleet, its discipline and structure, to the point of _believing_ , holding it as sacred. ****  
** **

As such, it is preventing her from doing what she has always done, when she was a teen trying to teach her friend Joey to do a headstand, when she was putting strangers back together in the mud, when she was disobeying direct orders to fly Saru to the stars, when she was finishing paperwork late in the night. ****  
** **

Commanding is serving, not believing in Starfleet. Under those terms, Philippa can believe in Michael. 

****

 

 _“You did not invite me to talk about uniforms, did you?”_ ****  
** **

_Satisfied with herself, Commander Lena Mouton settled back into the sofa, turning the amber liquid Philippa had refilled a moment before._ ****  
** **

_“No. I heard about the incident in your lab?” Philippa took a sip from her glass with emphasis, knowing very well nothing she could do would impress her chief science officer. “Issues with your recruits?”_ ****  
** **

_Lena’s black eyes shone with amusement. No matter how many ranks Philippa would climb, Lena would remain the Lieutenant who tolerated the bouts of ego of a late-blooming ensign to the point of keeping her as her roommate._ ****  
** **

_“You are talking about a specific recruit,” Lena stated calmly._ ****  
** **

_Philippa conceded a smug eyebrow. “She saved the entirety of your team and lab, but she did disregard your orders.”_ ****  
** **

_An exaggerated pout complemented Lena’s shrug._ ****  
** **

_“More like liberally interpreted them. Ensign Troke couldn’t even move from his terminal. This was no textbook case.”_ ****  
** **

_Low-frequency electromagnetic fields had filled the lab, generated by half-mineral, half-vegetal rapidly moving specimens that the away team had brought back for study. Of course, it wasn’t textbook._ ****  
** **

_Philippa had received Saru’s panicked call on the bridge before running to the now highly magnetic doors of the science lab. The officers, minus Saru, were trapped on the other side in a room stacked with equipment that should under no circumstance become magnetized and projected from one wall to the other. On the comms, Philippa could hear Lena giving strained orders and the ensigns crying “it’s not working” in return._ ****  
** **

_“That I see. What do you have to say about her?”_ ****  
** **

_“A remarkable intellect.” Lena squinted contentedly as if relishing in the thought. “I don’t know why she’s bothering staying on this old crate when she could be teaching or researching. Have you read her dissertation on the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis in the context of xenoanthropology and universal wavefunction?”_ ****  
** **

_Ensign Burnham had deactivated the artificial gravity in the lab, preventing the plants from moving and generating a magnetic field. From then on, isolating them was feasible, and the transmitted ensigns’ distress turned into awe._ ****  
** **

_“I certainly did not take her on as a favor to the Ambassador,” Philippa said dryly._ ****  
** **

_When the doors opened, Michael was kneeling above the secured specimens in the background, seemingly unfazed. She was making sure the creatures were unharmed. Philippa had no doubt she was ready for the bridge, even if Michael had only been with them for a year._ ****  
** **

_“She’s going to get you in trouble, Philippa,” Lena pointed out._ ****  
** **

_“Bold words, coming from you.” No answer came, the Science Officer researching her glass instead. Philippa’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you think so? If your panegyric review can be trusted, she’s already on course to be an exceptional officer, even a captain.”_ ****  
** **

_Lena glanced up with a purposeful expression, and Philippa shrank back instinctively in her seat._ ****  
** **

_“’Exceptional’ being the operative word. I don’t think Starfleet can keep up with her.”_ ****  
** **

_Philippa huffed at her, dismissive._ ****  
** **

_“She still has much to learn, exceptional or not. This is not the Vulcan Science Expeditionary Group.”_ ****  
** **

_Philippa had done this, like Lena before her and many others. To join Starfleet was to join a community dedicated to enduring. There was comfort in knowing that Starfleet had a rule or a lesson for almost everything and everyone._

_Michael’s path was ahead of her, promising. If there were mistakes to make, she will make them and carry on, with help._ ****  
** **

_“I thought you disliked heroes,” Lena continued, unperturbed. “Do you want to go there, Philippa?”_ ****  
** **

_Philippa signed Michael’s bridge clearance papers a few days afterward._

****

 

Eight hours into Day Nine of her wait, Philippa is reading against the trunk, wrapped in her cover, face barely lit by the PADD. Although incomplete for lack of data, Michael’s remarks on the lights align with what Philippa could understand from Shands and Memmem’s explanations. ****  
** **

Fungal spores, bio-luminescent like many mushrooms. ****  
** **

None of their outings have revealed the fungi’ mycelia responsible for their production. The species in question remains unknown, as do the origins of the conflicting readings Michael bemoaned. On the screen, even the annotations and numbers within Philippa’s comprehension betray a certain frustration. ****  
** **

_Estimates inconclusive._ ****  
** **

_Unknown composite material. Base similarities to genus Prototaxites._ ****  
** **

_Quantum variance(?) Tilo’s works._ ****  
** **

_Need more computing power than PADD for model._ ****  
** **

Philippa cannot curb the smile forming on her lips. ****  
** **

Moments pass, unchecked, until the constant wind backdrop breaks. Immediately, Philippa drops the screen and sprints outside. ****  
** **

Before the cave entrance, the expedition greeting her shows a new face; Felene has been replaced by a much smaller Crepusculan, and the four creatures hold between them what looks like a sedan chair, complemented with roof and drapes. From behind the group, a familiar face is peering. ****  
** **

“Come here,” Philippa calls as she rushes past the Crepusculans. ****  
** **

Michael drops her bag on the ground and dives into the embrace without a word. ****  
** **

Philippa’s arms wrap around Michael tightly and her face presses against the warmth of her neck under the scarf. The open affection isn’t entirely voluntary, given the urgency of the circumstances and the way they left each other, but the way Michael buries her head in Philippa’s short hair and inhales sharply lights a low fire in her body. ****  
** **

Michael’s chest rises and falls with hers, revered. No word can quite convey how relieved Philippa is, so she lets her body set into hers, standing, like cadets in a hurricane. Only the soft sounds of the Crepusculans can stir her. ****  
** **

“Captain, did you really have time to miss me?” Michael clears her throat as she releases Philippa, clasping her hands behind her back. ****  
** **

Despite Michael’s straight bearing and composed tone, Philippa takes note of the way Michael shifts her weight on her right leg, of the slight rasp in her voice and the circles under her eyes. Michael is putting on a façade. ****  
** **

“I did. Silly old me.” ****  
** **

Naturally, Philippa’s hands flutter to her face and rest lightly across her cheeks. Her skin feels too warm to the touch, damp. Michael leans into her palm, closing her eyes briefly. The storm has drawn stark patterns across the exposed part of her skin, leaving a clean mask around her eyes. The fuzz and expression wrinkles around her mouth are speckled with thin dust. Philippa’s thumb brushes the contours of her lips, absently. Michael’s russet eyes open to hold her gaze. ****  
** **

A sonorous grunt disturbs the drapes of the chair, now on the ground, and Philippa tears her eyes away from Michael with a small sigh. ****  
** **

The group of Crepusculans talking near the wall has grown from their four members, Shands, Memmem, and others joining them in pairs. Philippa exhales and takes a step toward the cot. ****  
** **

“How did it go? Human and alive?” ****  
** **

Following suit, Michael picks up her bag and signs her gratitude toward the Crepusculans from a distance. They nod in return, already moving to leave. ****  
** **

“Delirious and broken in a few places, but her vitals are satisfactory.” ****  
** **

Her voice sounds hoarse with strain. ****  
** **

“And you, how are you?” Philippa asks, carefully opening the drapes to reveal a woman in a snug wrap for transport. ****  
** **

“I am back, Philippa.” ****  
** **

Michael’s gaze has the blazing, warm quality of embers in the night when the dark shelters beasts and the light discloses them. The intensity there brings her quietness into stark relief. ****  
** **

Philippa has a dozen questions. They will wait for the evening when no Starfleet officer is moaning on their doorstep. ****  
** **

Ingeniously conceived as it is, the chair allows for a quick extraction, even with the thick splints Michael fitted around the injured legs. They can carry the cot and its occupant inside without much trouble, save for the short climbing passage before the door. The spot waits ready against the wall, surrounded by medical supplies and water, making Philippa none too proud of her busy listlessness of the past week. ****  
** **

In driven motions, Philippa lowers with care the wounded officer on the cot and starts removing the layers of clothing, while Michael makes herself comfortable at her side to help. ****  
** **

“I’ve tried to make pancakes, more or less.” She gestures toward a small pot close to the fire. “Eat, rest. Now’s my turn.” ****  
** **

With a nod, Michael gets up and leaves Philippa to care for the pilot. ****  
** **

Forties, handsome. A commander by the looks of it. ****  
** **

Indeed. One Commander Ellen Landry. ****  
** **

The medical tricorder in her hands spits out numbers and schematics, deficiencies and fractures, and Philippa mentally sorts them in order of priority. One after the other, she injects the hyposprays necessary to stabilize her levels and prevent other infections. ****  
** **

A beep alerts her, and Philippa grimaces, prompting Michael to shuffle closer, pancake in hand. ****  
** **

“Well, she is high as a kite.” ****  
** **

“As I suspected.” Michael’s brows knit. “The Crepusculans nursed her with a substance translated as _pebble juice_ .” ****  
** **

“I do not like the sound of it. Do you know for how long they’ve been treating her?” ****  
** **

“According to Cleos, twenty-seven recesses passed and the depot we found on the ship corroborates the time.” ****  
** **

The molecular structure of the drug shown on-screen isn’t far removed from Earth opioids without the addictive component. Perhaps she was lucky. ****  
** **

“Shands said they weren’t aware of the ship or the pilot before one of their own came back from a visit,” Philippa explains as she resumes her scan. “We should be able to get the drug out of her system.” ****  
** **

She halts, scowling at the readings. Her practical knowledge is dangerously rusty. ****  
** **

“Unfortunately Commander Landry has also started to go cold turkey.” ****  
** **

Before Michael can object, Philippa chastises her gently. ****  
** **

“You couldn’t have done anything, not in the desert. You did well.” ****  
** **

There is medicine she can give her now to ease her out of it. A whole medbay would be more useful. ****  
** **

Silently apologizing to her patient, Philippa combines what she can to limit withdrawal symptoms and prevent seizures for the time being. As Commander Landry regains consciousness, she becomes more likely to fret and injure herself more. ****  
** **

Time is of the essence. ****  
** **

The medkit Nambue put together is a far cry from the battlefield trauma kit Philippa was trained to use, and that was a quarter of a century ago. She kept her knowledge of the tech up-to-date, in theory, precisely for incidents like these, but her hands want for practice. ****  
** **

Whereas the bone regenerator can do the job on her ribs, the complex fractures on her tibia require the use of bone knitter and all of Philippa’s focus. ****  
** **

Jaw held tight, she goes to work on the pilot’s left leg. ****  
** **

On the edge of her vision, Michael observes her without piping a word, either too tired or too wired to talk. Still, her presence is invigorating, soothing; her Number One crossed the desert to recover the Commander, and now Philippa drags her back, one bone shard after the other, into the word of the living. ****  
** **

By the time Philippa is done with Landry’s other leg, perspiration has her hair sticking to her neck, and her back aches from the prostrated stance over the makeshift operating cot. Another scan completed, she falls back on the ground, releasing a deep breath. ****  
** **

“Clean bill of health for now,” Philippa cries out to Michael with satisfaction. ****  
** **

Her lotus posture has folded into a round and sleepy hump, and Michael’s head snaps back up, startled. ****  
** **

“Sorry. I will look after her for tonight, Number One.” Placing a hand on Michael’s thigh, Philippa pushes her to the side, inviting her to lie down. “Rest now. Even you cannot be expected to complete a journey of this length and not crash at the end.” ****  
** **

Michael tugs her sleeping bag close and chuckles, a marvelous sound. ****  
** **

“That, I do. I am no Commander Shockley.” ****  
** **

While Philippa hydrates and covers the Commander for the night, Michael wriggles into the bag, perpendicular to Landry on the ground. Philippa is about to advise her to settle at their usual spot near the fire, but Michael stops her. ****  
** **

“Would it be appropriate for me to rest my head on your thighs, Philippa?” ****  
** **

Taken aback, Philippa gawks at Michael’s pinched face, her eyes misty with sleep and ruffled curls smelling of fresh air. She _is_ home. ****  
** **

“Yes, of course,” Philippa answers in a small, grateful voice. ****  
** **

With greater dignity than the sleeping bag allows, Michael scuffles for a minute before resting her head in Philippa’s lap. The sigh that escapes her lips probably hides a yawn. ****  
** **

“I cannot guarantee that I will keep you company for long,” Michael says matter-of-factly, cheek against Philippa’s trousers, eyes falling shut. ****  
** **

“You are not expected to.” ****  
** **

There is no need to probe Michael about why she needs her proximity now and in such a manner. The journey had been long and no doubt fraught with ghosts. ****  
** **

Philippa’s fingers hesitate, hovering above her supine form. ****  
** **

“To your station, Captain,” Michael rasps. ****  
** **

Philippa sniggers silently and leans back against the wall to begin her watch. ****  
** **

The first hour draws slowly, interrupted by Landry’s waxing and waning state. Her temperature rises suddenly, causing Philippa to fear that her body pumped full of _pebble juice_ is reacting against treatment. Armed with compresses, Philippa drains the fresh water prepared earlier. ****  
** **

Landry mumbles between gritted teeth, slipping in and out of consciousness. ****  
** **

_Tilly — Glenn — Doctor_ . Names that Philippa does not recognize, people who like her crew miss her, probably. ****  
** **

Or not. ****  
** **

Given the expletive Landry just used against a fellow officer — _fucking Commander ball of nerves_ — the woman might not be as cuddly as Philippa pictures her. _Classic case of projection_ , Kat would say. ****  
** **

After two hours of cooling and soaking the cloth, Philippa feels Michael stir in her lap. A pained whimper escapes Landry’s lips, and the woman starts shivering. Philippa covers her promptly and scans her again, surveying her vitals. ****  
** **

“Come on, Commander. I’d be delighted to meet you.” ****  
** **

Between her arms, Michael is considering her solemnly.

“To an extent, I do not think your postulate was right,” she asks, voice distant. ****  
** **

Philippa presses the back of her hand to Landry’s forehead, trying to feel rather than read her evolution. “Which one?” ****  
** **

“About your ego.” Michael sets her jaws, repressing a yawn, and Philippa raises her eyebrows eloquently. “I suspect you crave bonding, Philippa, much more deeply and personally than as tools necessary for running a good ship.” ****  
** **

_Where did her journey take Michael for her to come to her with such questions?_ ****  
** **

“Why so inquisitive, Michael? You should sleep.” ****  
** **

Michael slides down her thigh to alleviate the pressure, and her hair tickles Philippa’s ankle. ****  
** **

“Humanity,” Michael now marvels earnestly. “In the absence of another common factor, it seemed to you the most evident tool. A language to understand each other. You were looking for a bond.” ****  
** **

Philippa exhales loudly. ****  
** **

The sole reason why she isn’t running away screaming at the concept of staying behind while there is a war going on, of accepting what is a colossal breach of rank is because… Michael is with her. Michael and her utterly confounding approach to everything, who sees something she doesn’t understand or is afraid of and takes the time to get a closer look. ****  
** **

“You are a kinder soul than I’ll ever be,” she concludes quietly. ****  
** **

“Philippa…” Michael starts, leaning up. ****  
** **

Philippa’s hand brushes her jaw, enjoining. ****  
** **

“Hush now. Are you dreaming or are you talking?” ****  
** **

Her graceful lips remain open on a word, inviting. Before they can form an answer, a beep, somewhere, calls back Philippa to reality. ****  
** **

Landry’s blood pressure has fallen back to normal levels.  ****  
** **

Philippa fusses over her, checking and scanning, all the while keenly aware of Michael’s open eyes set on her. The commander is out of deep waters, her body having weathered what seems like the worst of withdrawal. ****  
** **

“Well done, Commander,” Philippa whispers, clasping her frail shoulder. ****  
** **

Once satisfied with the lessened shakiness of her patient, Philippa rests back against the wall and allows herself to look down on Michael. ****  
** **

Sleeping. Beautiful and alive, within reach. Perhaps it is as simple as this, reaching when she wants to and let herself be pulled. Michael is that strong, and if Philippa needs a system to survive, she will reinvent one, like she did after she quit the field. ****  
** **

Rolling her eyes at her sentimentality, Philippa sighs. ****  
** **

“Thank you for coming back,” she mutters under her breath. ****  
** **

In her lap, Michael opens her eyes to answer: “You asked me to.” ****  
** **

Philippa can’t say she is surprised. ****  
** **

“Why can’t you sleep, Number One?” ****  
** **

“Because you are with me.” ****  
** **

The sincerity in her tone, in her gaze, is sobering.  ****  
** **

Philippa thinks back to classrooms and the vows she took there, to herself. She swore a childish oath to hope, against stagnation. Her father had just died then, and her pain felt colossal, conscious, in search of rattling the world. The choice of hope was made in pain and it colored her world from then on. Her first career was decided there. Her second career happened in hilarity, but it took considerable pressure. It was not a sign to stop. ****  
** **

How could she forget that? ****  
** **

“’mander Ellen Landry,” the other woman at her feet suddenly yells, making Philippa start. ****  
** **

In her lap, Michael practically leaps out of her sleeping bag. ****  
** **

On her knees, Philippa grasps Landry’s shoulders in an attempt to calm her frantic clawing at the air. After what happened, she is bound to be disoriented. Philippa quickly starts explaining who and where they are. Michael has crawled by her side with a PADD ready to provide a map of the quadrant with their precise position. ****  
** **

Landry’s eyes are unfocused, not even searching the interior of the cave, but aimlessly floating until they land on Michael. ****  
** **

“Michael Burnham?” she slurs. ****  
** **

Philippa chances a worried look at Michael who shakes her head imperceptibly. Oblivious to the silent conversation, Landry seizes Michael up and down before offering a dubious “uh, you have fans.” ****  
** **

Michael’s lip twitches, annoyed. ****  
** **

“What do you mean? Who?” ****  
** **

Despite Philippa’s arms keeping her firmly on the ground, Landry writhes weakly, wincing as she senses the tenderness in her ribcage. ****  
** **

“On the _Discovery_ . Did I break something?” ****  
** **

“It’s already operational?” Philippa asks in surprise. ****  
** **

The way Landry glares despite her confusion would be hilarious if she wasn’t so wan and shaky. Her pupils are reduced to pin-points. ****  
** **

“I will need to take a close look at that _pebble juice_ ’s structure,” Michael notes with a hint of worry in her voice. ****  
** **

“Good idea, yes,” Philippa grates. “Please, stop moving, Commander, your ribs are still healing.” ****  
** **

Landry for her part appears more peeved by Philippa’s familiarity with the ship. ****  
** **

“How d’you know about it?” ****  
** **

_Drunk Kat_ might not be a judicious answer to give in view of Landry’s high-strung state. ****  
** **

“I have connections.” Philippa pauses, connecting the dots. ”Were you part of a rescue mission?” ****  
** **

Something shines behind Landry’s eyes, dark, guilty. ****  
** **

“Oh, of course. You don’t know about the war. Captain, you’ve been here for what seven, eight months?” ****  
** **

“We do, in fact, know of the conflict of which you speak,” Michael corrects her wryly. ****  
** **

Landry grimaces in incomprehension. Michael squints her eyes, the only tell-tale sign of embarrassment she would concede in front of an unfamiliar superior officer. ****  
** **

“It is a little complicated to explain right now.” ****  
** **

Again, Landry wrestles to prop herself up, forcing Philippa to give up and place a makeshift pillow under her. ****  
** **

“Easy, Commander. Your legs and ribs will take time to heal completely. We don’t have a fully-staffed medbay at hand.” ****  
** **

Casting a horrified look at her legs in splints for the time being, Landry groans her disapproval. ****  
** **

“The ineptitude! When I put my hand on that—“ The woman pauses and peers around in alarm. Despite its many cavities, the cave isn’t so large that one glance cannot take it in. Landry still cranes her neck and stretches on the bed to narrow her eyes at the dark. ****  
** **

“We took shelter under the mountains, Commander. The strength of the wind outside…” ****  
** **

Michael’s voice dies down, alerted by Landry’s change in demeanor. ****  
** **

“Wh—where is that Klingon?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that was a double bluff and yes, there be Klingons.
> 
> A warm, confused welcome to Landry.


	16. Wave Function Collapse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Landry and Michael both have stories to tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Life got busy and I struggled with this chapter.
> 
> Yeah, quantum physics, but only a pinch.

When Michael left her quarters on stardate 1202.1 before beaming down to the Crepusculan homeworld, there was nothing to forget. Not a slipper lies out of place, not a book stands askew. Her trunks are piled in a corner of her room, ready to be packed and transported wherever needed. The precaution is not an expression of insecurity, but certitude. 

On Doctari Alpha, the Federation officers who coaxed her out of the cabinet were short on time and did not let her pack anything. Whatever personal effects were preserved from the investigation never found their way to her while she was being processed by Earth child services.

Every situation can change; every home can be invaded. Even this removed patch of dust on the edge of the quadrant can be touched by war.

Permanence is a statistical outlier.

“ _Storm.... low approach… tracked_ …” 

Somewhere, Commander Landry is talking, drained and annoyed.

Involuntarily, Michael’s back straightens from the stooped posture she adopted to help Philippa. 

Michael extracts herself from her shock in pointed thoughts, pulled one after the other as if unraveling a tapestry. Drawing lines between points of focus, she centers herself —Landry’s sluggish diction, the discreet smell from the heated pancakes and _sherra_ grub, the brush of Philippa knee against her leg, the floating dust catching light, the taste of iron in her mouth. As she discards all the sensations she can perceive and name, her control grows and with it, her ability to think. 

For the first time in months, new information about the state of the Federation and the Klingon conflict is available. The issue at hand is time-sensitive and threatens the safety of many, including Philippa. A course of action needs to be decided on in a matter of hours.

The commander’s words alone are relevant, and Michael can hang onto them at last amidst the tumult of her mind.

“—practically crashed on top of me,” Landry growls with a pained expression. “In-flight.” 

Propped up on the cot gifted by the Crepusculans, she shifts uncomfortably, wincing when her contortions upset her recovering body. Philippa’s clean uniform jacket on her shoulders does little to mitigate the general look of dilapidation about her. Her hair sticks to her temples, the circles under her eyes accentuate her feverish black eyes, and the now loose undershirt is marred with dried blood.

“Is there nothing you can do about my legs, Captain?”. Her deep voice rings as boastful as it does troubled.

Cup of _sherra_ soup in hand, Philippa shakes her head ruefully.

“Patience, Commander. I started the process, but you will have to rest for a week or so.”

“You were saying, Commander,” Michael prompts in a voice that she hopes doesn’t betray her emotional state.

Landry’s glare suggests she is too caught up in her own story to take note of Michael. For the time being, Michael cannot bring herself to seek Philippa’s eyes. It is not fear of her judgment that stops her, rather conviction that none of her emotional barriers would sustain her friend’s kind attention.

 _Now_ is not the time. 

“My shuttle struck something,” Landry continues, frowning. “Mountains, probably. We disengaged just in time, with me aboard his ship. But then, the turbulences caused by the storm…”

She tries to lift her arm to express annoyance and flinches immediately. As if interacting with a small child, Philippa heaves a patient sigh and sternly places the cup in front of Landry’s face. Were the circumstances other, the pantomime would be entertaining, but it barely endeavours to register as reassuring here. 

Philippa is doing her job, so is Commander Landry.

The wrecked raider unfolds before Michael’s mind’s eye, and she follows piece after piece the commander’s retelling. 

“He couldn’t get us out,” Landry says quietly. Her brows furrow and relax as she gets lost in the recollection. Her earlier aplomb wilts. “He was screaming instructions to correct course; I was groggy from the fight. The windscreen got damaged as we hit another mountain or rock.” 

Jaws clenched, Landry narrows her eyes.

In her focused gaze, Michael can read the violence of the wind and the disorienting blindness where she had been living for a week not a day before. 

One of the most treacherous aspects of such tempests lies in the sensory overload caused by the deafening sound and the lack of visibility. Despite her experience with violent storms on Vulcan, Michael underwent loss of nerve and occasional confusion during her journey. Retreating within herself had been her preferred coping mechanism, and it had left her irrational to the extreme, prone to emotion and panic. 

Without the Crepusculans, without the promise made to Philippa, even without the responsibility toward Landry’s wellbeing, Michael would have lost herself in the storm.

“We were crashing blind, so we tried to eject. Ground came too fast,” Landry concludes dejectedly.

With apparent frustration, she grabs the cup from Philippa’s hands and starts drinking, ignoring Philippa’s reproving grumble. 

“Slow down, Commander.”

What the meal lacks in taste, it makes up for with nutrients that Philippa and Michael learned to add to the various handmade preparations. Another concession to normality. 

Landry’s wan face remains tellingly disinterested in the contents of the cup. Michael has to remind herself that the commander has barely woken up from a long, drug-induced sleep. Philippa’s medical scrutiny may not help her show affability and ease.

Her mouth works slowly, uncertain, before twisting into a halfhearted grin.

Risking a glance at Philippa, Michael finds her studying her back with extreme care, as expected. A nod of reassurance would do much to dismiss her apparent concern. Before Michael can think of a strategy, Philippa flashes her a private smile, quick as silver, and places her hand ostensibly open on the floor, shielded from Landry’s eyes by her bent knee.

Michael’s breath hitches in her throat. Discreetly, she moves her hand to rest in Philippa’s.

“It’s a miracle you made it out in one piece,” Philippa observes after Landry finishes the food.

Landry lifts a mocking eyebrow.

“Barely, Captain. But that Klingon seemed in fine shape. Managed to attack me again and drag me back to his ship before he realized how bad it was.” 

Michael was under no illusion that the Klingon Landry was so fearful of upon her awakening came out unscathed. The confirmation still makes her stomach drop.

Contemplating her empty cup, Landry sniggers confidentially, caught in a thought. Either Commander Landry is just as daring-do as she appears to be, or the medicine is still affecting her behavior.

“We couldn’t even breathe in the storm. I think he left to get material, shelter, something.” She shrugs, recoiling instantaneously. “I passed out.”

During the two days Michael spent resting in the home of the Crepusculans from Linssall, she was able to observe their habits from up close. The one she identified as the guard, Cleos, was little more than a mayor and not equipped to defend their people against an intruder. Why would their species need it here? Yet, they were quick for their mass and withdrawn by nature. Given the time it took them to walk up to Philippa and Michael, the Crepusculans would shy away from engaging with the Klingon longer, if at all.

 _Thankfully_.

As for the Humans here, Michael, Philippa and Landry are cognizant of Klingon nature.

Are they?

Michael squints her eyes shut as a reflex. The pressure of Philippa’s fingers increases imperceptibly, fondly, before leaving her palm. 

Two factors must be taken into consideration.

First, Michael established she cannot be trusted to assess the situation on her own, as she is compromised by her feelings. Second, there _are_ people with her, to take on after her.

She can rely on them.

“I will be warning Assa of their presence on land,” Philippa announces, echoing her thoughts. “Shands does not consider their home to be at risk, but scavengers should know.”

Philippa’s voice sounds firm, but when Michael glances at her face, it appears clouded in lassitude. 

And it is founded; Philippa served in many war-torn areas. She has experience in navigating territories plagued with guerillas and rebellions. An isolated Klingon warrior might fill Michael with dread, but there was a time in Philippa’s life where it was business as usual.

“I am pretty sure they are tall and clawy enough to tear a Klingon into pieces,” Landry bristles.

“In the time we have been here, they showed no sign of aggression,” Michael corrects her. “Everything points toward them being the largest non-fungal form of life here. They are completely harmless.”

“So you say, Commander Burnham. They haven’t met a Klingon warrior yet.” 

By way of an answer, Michael stares blankly at Landry. 

A few months ago, Michael would have agreed, although her judgment would have been delivered in sentences such as _the ideal outcome for any Klingon interaction is battle_ and _because of their relentless hostility_. But experience here has proven Michael’s judgement —her logic— is beyond compromised, impaired by prejudices and fear.

“Look,” Landry resumes with disquieting determination. “The people here didn’t mention a big, toothy snow-white humanoid scampering about in a full suit of armor, alive or dead?”

“ _Albino,_ you mean?” Michael rectifies, prickled.

Landry’s face twists into a non-committal pout.

“How’s that going to prevent him from gutting us on sight?”

“Let us not assume he will be belligerent,” Philippa intervenes, tone suddenly clipped, and Landry becomes rigid upon identifying the captain’s command voice. “Disoriented and aggressive, _if_ he was wounded, but not on a rampage. Why would he? He’s isolated, without ship or supplies.”

Plain on her face, the commander’s disapprobation mirrors Michael’s. The empty cup has been pushed aside, a trifling reminder that Landry is supposed to be safe with them after defeating the odds twice in a month.

“Respectfully, sir, we are in the middle of a war.”

“And the Klingons are not a monolith,” Philippa answers coolly.

“He _attacked_ my shuttle.”

“He made you prisoner.” The captain’s tone displays a sharp quality that Michael learned not to challenge years ago. “And rather clumsily, by your own account. The behavior you described… he isn’t a warrior, at most a _scout_.”

Landry’s lips thin in frustration, but she nods her understanding without further protest. 

In not so many words, Philippa ordered her to stand down and fall in rank. Landry does not fit the profile of someone who seeks disobedience. 

Even in her weakened state, Landry commands quiet attention, her dark eyes trained on Philippa with a peculiar bluntness and audacity. This is the attitude of a commanding officer who has fought Klingons for months now and has more knowledge of the situation than two castaways with seniority. She will not be easily advised to show caution.

Shifting uneasily, Michael considers all the factors that could lead Landry to misread the situation and Philippa’s understanding of the latter. First encounters rarely occur without complication, Michael learned it at her expense. Her experience is bound to shape her reasoning.

 _War_ . _Assault. Crash. Wound. Medication. Isolation._

Landry’s caginess is logical.

Beside her, Philippa expresses clear displeasure, two deep lines between her eyebrows. She has a low tolerance for insubordination, although Landry’s convalescence should grant her breathing room. 

Something is bothering her, and Michael strains to isolate the hints Philippa is picking up on.

When Philippa notices Michael’s attention, she shakes her head reassuringly.

“May I ask why you came to this world, Commander?” Her voice regains part of its warmth. “Not for pleasure, I’d wager?” 

Landry’s nostrils flare fleetingly, and she attempts to straighten on the cot. Philippa pushes her back gently but sternly.

“My orders were to assess whether a rescue mission was possible. I told you the Klingon came on top of me.”

In no way does it explain why she was alone or her specific reaction to Michael.

“You recognized me,” Michael interjects. “Why?”

Directing her attention toward Michael, Landry makes a face and lifts her shoulders prudently.

“Old acquaintances of yours.”

Michael gratifies her non-explanation with a querying eyebrow.

“Commander Saru. The helm girl, Detmer. Always harping on about you.”

The uncertain feeling settles into dread. 

The probability for Commander Landry, whom Michael has never heard of before, to know two of their _old_ colleagues with distinct circles of friends is low. Landry is posted on the _Discovery_ , a new ship, with advanced technology going by Philippa’s words; the _Shenzhou_ would lack reasons and opportunities to interact with such a vessel, especially in the middle of a conflict. If Landry has been into contact with Saru for information about the Crepusculan homeworld, she would not know about Lieutenant Detmer.

Only one explanation remains.

Philippa’s voice is a whisper. “What happened to the _Shenzhou_?”

If possible, Landry’s face takes on a more ashen shade. 

“You don’t know _exactly_ how the war started, right?”

“Please, Commander,” Philippa breathes.

Michael’s heart drums against her chest as she watches Commander Landry grit her teeth and look up uneasily before starting.

“On stardate 1207.3, the USS _Mirzakhani_ was called to investigate a damaged beacon on the edge of explored space. Upon inspection, the officer sent killed a Klingon guard posted nearby. The Klingons were not pleased.”

Relationship with Klingons have been fraught for eons, such incidents were not unheard of, Michael tells herself. _This_ , they already know, or could have inferred. 

“Reinforcement came on both sides. Fire was opened.” Landry shakes her head and works her jaw in anger. “Pardon my language, Captain, but it was a fucking mess. The _Shenzhou_ was among the first to answer and suffered heavy damage and casualties. Seven Federation ships were destroyed that day. _Clarke_ , _Yeager_ , _T'Plana-Hath_ , _Europa, Shenzhou_ …”

Michael’s mouth opens in horror.

“No…” From Philippa, the words come out a timid cry of pain. Her face is a blank mask, stricken and dead.

 _Shenzhou_ is lost.

So Michael does lose her home to the Klingons yet again. The news comes with unavoidability to her; how could she expect her path to lead to a different conclusion?

Eighteen years ago she had two names to list, to remember. Sixteen years ago, it was twenty-three. Now—

“Part of your crew survived, Captain, Commander,” Landry hurries to add. “Some of them are on the _Discovery_ with Captain Lorca _.”_

The many faces pass before her eyes. _Stoke. Januzzi. Doctor Nambue. Shockley. Jira. Gant. Oliveira. Spyropoulos. Fan. García_. 

In the beginning, it took her months to understand that learning their names would be in her best interest, longer to grasp that she could find contentment in getting to know them. In their presence, she never reached a state of comfort that enabled her to experience a clear sense of belonging. The _Shenzhou_ was her home and her colleagues were the people who lived there, shared her lunch breaks, smiled at her in the morning, cried with her when Commander Mouton retired. They were—

Now, they are names to remember and bodies to bear. She does not know how many yet.

“How could a skirmish at the border turn into a full-blown conflict?” Philippa asks in disbelief. “The Klingons were fine with the _status quo_ before.”

Her incredulity prompts Michael at least, preventing her mind from keeling over into memories. 

The lost names are replaced by the twenty-four great houses, their roles and contingent. To take on the Federation, the Klingon Empire would need unity, and the proud nature of most of their cultures makes long-standing collaboration between their kins unthinkable. It was not logical.

“Captain Klimov of the _Mirzakhani_ tried to talk with the Klingons after the death of their warrior and went on the ship as an act of good faith,” Landry offers as an explanation. She squirms on her cot, out of pain or shame; it’s impossible to tell.

“No…” Michael gasps. “Their culture rests on inviolable honor. Shaming oneself would doom the negotiations.”

Landry’s eyebrows shoot up.

“An understatement, Commander. The minutes of the trial are not accessible, but from what transpired in the media, it went haywire and one of their high commanders was killed, Kol the conqueror.”

“We killed a Klingon general?” Philippa enunciates, incredulous.

“Lord T’Kuvma lapped that up, rallied the clans. Klimov is toasted and will spend the rest of her life in prison if the Federation still stands and the quadrants have not fallen to the Klingons before then.”

The bits and pieces of information provided by Saru and Sarek let them fear that the encounter with the Klingons had devolved into war, but not of this scale, not from such a crude mistake. 

Her familiarity with the Klingons allowed her to surmise that if the worst came to pass, the conflict would have dwindled into a manageable confrontation by not. Sarek has not overstated his assessment. 

 _Death and destruction_.

How could it come to this? 

“She made a martyr out of Kol,” Michael muses out loud, putting back together the puzzle to combat the rising sentiment of dread in her chest. 

Eyes riveted to Michael, horror dawns on Philippa’s face. Landry nods without a word.

“Someone they can fight for endlessly,” Michael continues. “That might have even be what they wanted.” 

The Klingons had sought this outcome, prepared for it. Great unifiers are few and far between, but they do come. The relay was a trap laid out for the _Mirzakhani_ to fall into. There is rhyme and reason to the chaos. Yet bringing light to it does not bring Michael comfort.

The _Shenzhou_ should have answered that call.

“With the right propaganda, this is what fuels a war,” Philippa observes soberly.

Her pallid shock of earlier has made way for a quiet, dignified anger that turns her face striking in despair, haunted.

“There was no coming back from that,” Landry concludes bitterly. “I hate to be the bearer of such bad news, but we are losing. The Klingons have made considerable progress across Federation space. We cannot keep up with their technology.”

Philippa’s dark wide eyes shutter, louder than the names Michael has been trying to silence.

_Mom. Dad. Fer’at. T’Meni. T’Lar. Selik. And the children of the Vulcan Learning Center. And the crew on seven Federation ships. And the others lost since._

Sarek called their presence on this world a _waste of resources_. 

Their absence becomes stifling as causality between the different events appears, undeniable.

She could have prevented the battle and provided the Federation with a solution. She could have saved them.

Her mouth tastes acrid, vile.

_A waste._

Without a word, Michael gets up and leaves the cave.

 

 

Assa, Michael, and the others stayed two days in the Linssall healing house. 

Everything in the Crepusculans’ behavior suggests that they do not need to build their strength back. Nevertheless, they allowed Michael to rest as much as she needed. Her body would have benefitted from twelve hours more in the quiet whispering atmosphere of the house, but Landry’s state started deteriorating and Michael made the choice to walk on her tired limbs rather than let her waste away.

She was not allowed in the village but from the overtures, she could study the comings and goings of the Crepusculans. 

Lis and Assa did not leave her side, Masso, Iffe and Felene came and went, and the Crepusculans working in the house were curious about her. She drank too many cups of _Keffar_ and caught a glimpse of what could very well be a book in the healer’s hands. It was a restful stay.

She contemplated the thoughts unearthed in the desert with a cool, reassured eye. It seemed she had defeated her fear, or at least in identifying her hatred, found a way out of it. She could not wait to share this new order with Philippa.

Their reunion was still in the future, the prospect joyful.

And it was. But once the initial incertitude of the pilot’s identity was removed, the system became more complex —two castaways, lost, opposite. 

_Quantum entanglement. Two particles whose state cannot be considered independently._

At the cave entrance, Michael mulls over the new piece of information, her hands folded behind her, eyes on the eddies of sand down the path. The air draft changes its song with Philippa’s arrival.

“The commander tires easily and is now taking a nap.” Her voice hesitates. “I shouldn’t stray too far.”

In Michael’s field of vision, Philippa’s boots enter, the edge of her coat, her hand idle against her thigh.

“I thought I heard something,” Michael lies without conviction. 

Her mind appears strangely blank, cleaned of data, plans, desires. Only elements of reality, within reach, within observing distance remain. She exhausted something in herself while bracing for the worst on her way to Linssall. Now, she has to rebuild endurance without knowing where to start, without knowing if she should.

There is a Klingon on this world, but Michael is not interested in finding him, his nature, his incentives. He was part of a system, like Landry, the other half of war.

“Michael…” Her name in Philippa’s voice does not rise higher than a tremor across the water. “You can talk to me.”

Fingers tug at her sleeve and trail down her elbow, down her wrist and palm. They wrap around her hand, calloused skin across dry knuckles.

Michael closes her eyes.

In the desert, the impulse had been so strong to seek Philippa. She questioned it, attempted to assign a purpose to the feeling rather than what it was: Philippa was her source of strength, and Michael was reaching for her. 

She is _here_. She is ready to listen.

”If the Klingon attacks the Crepusculans, you...” 

Words fail Michael. She cannot bear what logic tells her is the most likely outcome. 

She thought she had left behind in the desert his hold on her emotions, like the remains of a meditation. How foolish she was to believe the mind alone could win over her senseless impulses. 

Her voice drops to a remorseful whisper. “I could never forgive myself.”

“It’s not your fault he ended up here.”

A predictable answer, lacking in information.

The light strikes the wall of the pass at a peculiar angle; the luminosity has not decreased enough for the time of the Crepusculan day to be considered dusk, but the vast shadow from the mountain cloaks Philippa and Michael in darkness. The dust clouds in the incident light burn like hearth, making it impossible to look directly at the stripe of sky above the pass.

“Is it? Landry was sent here to rescue us, and we wouldn’t have been there without my promotion.”

Did she believe at some point that she deserved such an honor?

“It was her commanding officer’s responsibility, not yours.” Philippa sounds certain of her words. “Sending her alone is not something I would have done, even if it is typical Gabriel.” 

The way she squeezes Michael’s hand leaves her more desolate than her thoughts.

“I brought you with me because you are our best anthropologist, and there is no one I trust more to help save the well.“

There was never a time when she did not have Philippa’s trust. Neither the arrogance of her ways seven years ago, nor the specter of her past in the desert deters her. 

“We should have been the one answering the signal from the relay. We could have—“

“What? Been involved in the same diplomatic incident.” 

In Philippa’s pause, Michael can hear the weight of peace on her shoulders. 

“Perhaps the war would have started with more violence. This is pure conjecture on your part.” 

Michael sees it. There is a difference between _seeing_ and _understanding_. In the wake of her newfound irrationality, nothing guards her against conjectures and errors. Logic should have defeated that Klingon beast eighteen years ago, sixteen years ago, seven years ago, a week ago.

Conjecture is logic stripped of actualization, and Michael loses that the moment she witnesses how skewed her comprehension of the world is. A quantum system collapses upon observation.

“Michael, why are you so determined to be guilty?”

Philippa’s voice skims across her thoughts, probing with such patience that the accusation doesn’t land as hard as it should. In her brother’s mouth —prickly—, in Jira’s mouth— impatient—, it would have invited deflection on her part. She isn’t so blind as to ignore the mechanics of her guilt, their roots, yet logic has always provided her with an out, a loop-hole.

She experiences guilt, thus she is _guilty_. How could Philippa understand with the little knowledge she has of Michael?

 _Information._ Like Landry provided them. But it is more than that for Michael, for Philippa; a wound she has been needing to share for years. There are many ways in which Philippa earned her trust, but Michael never let her earn her vulnerability. Even her feelings had been explained to her in a way that prevented them from becoming a weakness. 

Michael needs Philippa.

It is time to expose herself to the possibility of being seen, whole, with her guilt and pride. If anyone could see her, it was Philippa. 

“Because I _am_ ,” Michael answers matter-of-factly.

The confession lies so simple between them, bordering on evidence. In the silence that follows Michael detects Philippa’s absence of judgment.

Michael exhales deeply. Her gaze flees Philippa before the same sunset that they watched together months ago. Michael could not look away from Philippa’s face then.

“My parents…” Her voice has the substance of the dust around them, a permeable wall, all too transparent. “They were stationed at a Human-Vulcan science outpost at Doctari Alpha.”

The skies of Doctari Alpha were dark in the absence of cities and the burgundy rock on which the outpost was built reflected little light. One could see so many stars at night that it seemed like a city had emerged in the sky. 

Here, Michael has not seen a constellation in nine months.

“My mom and dad had planned a family vacation to Mars. But I begged them to stay for three more days so I could witness a nearby star go supernova.”

One of her distant aunts on her maternal side would join them for a few days. Constantly prospecting the cosmos in search of new energy sources, she wanted to see how Michael had grown in the three years she had not seen her. Her mom was looking forward to seeing her relative after weeks of arduous work on one of her projects, while her dad had prepared multiple activities for them to do together, places to visit, shows to see.

Her mother knew how happy watching the stars would make her, so they delayed.

“Then the Klingons attacked. My dad tried to barricade the kitchen door while my mom hid me in a cabinet. And I couldn’t see, but I could hear everything.”

The doors burst open, furniture broke. Pressed against the door inside the cabinet, she could feel in her bones every impact of their armored boots on the floor, across the cupboard, on her dad’s chest. Her father fought. Her mother fought. They both cried out each other’s name, and Michael stayed silent to survive.

_"I need you to be brave. Stay in here."_

They saved her because _they_ were her parents. All of the strength and astuteness they gifted her kept her alive in that cabinet. It was her decision to stay and watch the stars that doomed them.

“They killed my dad first. That was quick. They took my mom outside. I don’t know what happened.” 

Afterward, she calculated the exact amount of time they spent in the living room, mere meters from where Michael was clutching her mouth to prevent the sobs from coming out. She remembered the last time she looked at the hour before they came in, took into account the time necessary to break inside and cross the apartment, measured how long it takes to kill a male adult Human rapidly and a female adult Human slowly.

It was a logical solution to her feelings of powerlessness. She could not help them but she could understand, see, make sure this would not happen again.

“And when it was over, they sat down. At our table. Ate dinner. Our dinner. And they were talking and laughing.”

The story almost hangs light now, spoken out loud. Not easy to tell, but present in a manner that makes its management _not_ impossible. Its contours have a weight and definition she did not expect.

“Michael, I am sorry,” Philippa whispers.

Another hand brushes her shoulder, careful, an invitation that Michael cannot answer, not yet. 

“It wasn’t the last time I caused the deaths of others,” she continues, evenly. “At the Vulcan Learning Center, the logic extremists were after me, not Spock. Their obsession with the purity of our culture targeted me as the aberration.”

Her failure to master her humanity was spectacular then. She had worked hard but her mind was still unsubtle in parsing her emotions, let alone refining them into tools for logic. Provided she blended with more efficiency, they could have disregarded her presence, they could have— 

“Is this what you believe?”

Philippa’s question does not come as an accusation but the incredulity Michael detects in her voice startles her.

Seeking her gaze, she is surprised to read a profound sadness across Philippa’s features, grief and understanding coalesced. 

She finds it _inconceivable_ that Michael would ascribe reason to her own words. 

“Experience shows that death follows me.”

Philippa steps closer, the dark well of her eyes enclosing her.

“This world lives because of you.” Her lips hold the last syllable as proof, definite. ”As for your parents, your friends… How could you be responsible for the violent actions of others? You were a _child_ , a victim.”

Michael’s head shakes vehemently.

She set to make Philippa understand, and she cannot stop now.

“I am not anymore, and my actions… I thought I had appropriately dealt with the effects of my past.”

In her foolishness, she had taken this storm as an extended retreat, authorizing her mind to contemplate emotions the way she does in the privacy of her mind, where there is no puzzle to apply her logic to. Amanda had encouraged her to do so, having developed a similar approach to her meditations. It allows for a deeper comprehension of her emotions and a firmer grip on them. Even thinking about Sarek and the Vulcan Learning Center had been more productive for a while.

Uncouth precautions.

Assa talked about the impact fear could have; mistakes, hurt. She is guilty of not handling her emotions properly. The storm unwound them.

“I was never in control of my fear and shame.” Turning her body to face Philippa, Michael breaks physical contact with her, the loss unbearable but necessary. “What I am experiencing right now is _clarity_ about the extent of my weaknesses, of my blindness.”

“Oh Michael, it was no weakness.”

Philippa surges forward, cupping her cheek, and Michael’s eyes fall shut at the warm sensation across her skin, inside her chest.

 _No weakness_. 

It isn’t before hearing the words that she realizes how she longed for them. Every justification and contradiction collapses under the sensation of relief taking hold of her; some of them so long-standing habits grew on them like moss on a building. It is more than she let herself exist anywhere, on Vulcan, on the _Shenzhou._

Yielding, she curls into Philippa’s embrace and presses her face against her shoulder. 

“Perhaps. But they did not make me feel strong.” Her voice comes out muffled, anonymous. “This shame, this burden… I did not feel strong.”

Because she lacked a definite understanding of the system in which she was operating. Her mind is not a quantum system, probabilistic and indeterminate. It is fundamentally relativistic. 

Emotion is merely a factor, once too many overlooked when assessing a situation. In the desert, when faced with the possibility of interacting with a Klingon, she began to grasp just how important a factor hatred was. For many years, in trying to subdue her emotions to the smallest share, she failed to apprehend them as variables to take into account rather than experimental artifacts to erase.

“You are not stuck in this feeling, I promise. Everything changes.”

The scoff that escapes Michael’s lips feels damp, and Michael retreats from Philippa’s arms to the edge of the entrance. Disclosing romantic inclinations has been easy in comparison.

“Healing _is_ a process,” Philippa scolds her with warmth.

Michael cannot help rolling her eyes. “I am aware of it, Philippa.”

Dr. Parok had been clinical with her after the attack; to her young Human eyes, it seemed evident that a Vulcan would hold the key to healing the impossibly large emotions she was carrying in her chest. _Healing_ meant _suppressing,_ and it satisfied her. It was a minimal effort compared to feeling the pain, to bearing it.

_When emotion brings us ghosts from the past, only logic can root us in the present._

It was true, but only if the logic in question could be concerned with emotions. She could observe in the present, deduce —the very lens through which she reads the world was corrupted.

“Of course you are.” Philippa heaves a sigh and walks up to her, gazing absently at the crimson wall. “But you have to let others help you as well. Have you ever tried to talk to our ship counselor?”

“I will ask our neighbors for sure,” Michael quips instinctively.

Philippa’s eyes narrow, drawing minute lines across the birth of her nose.

“Do you know something about the help I got, across oh, perhaps thirty-six years of strain? It is a reality that I will perhaps not reach a point where I am able to look back and think that I am _healed_ from this; scars remain, absent muscles. But I can look at myself and see that the person I am is no longer _hurting_ from that particular wound. It allows for growth in different muscles, new sensations, and strengths. New supports. That’s the process.”

“You see me as wounded,” Michael falters.

The way she had tried to reclaim it had never worked. She has always hit a wall when trying to recreate an equilibrium lost in childhood, her family, her dreams, how she expected the world to be. A broken child, a broken Vulcan, a broken Human —she hated to be seen as such. 

Not the outcome she expected.

Philippa shakes her head vigorously.

“Not like this. I think you are incredibly strong. What you went through on Doctari Alpha, on Vulcan, it was not necessary to make you the extraordinary person you are. You shouldn’t have to discipline yourself for hurting. You can feel pain; you can lean on others. I won’t leave you alone with the Klingon.”

The moment she grasps the scope of Philippa’s words, a weight sinks in her stomach, dragging her into a free fall.

 _It was not necessary_.

It means her pain is not a trial. 

Philippa is right, and now that she considers it, artifacts factored, hers is also a perfectly logical approach. Causality needs to be established even here within the confines of emotions. Her pain does not come from her inability to deal with something that was necessary to make her who she was; it comes directly from what happened.

And the pieces fall into place as the map of her connections to the world appears.

“All these years it seems I have been hiding the true nature of my pain,” Michael starts, astounded. “Distracting myself with logic, ambition, and pride.” 

Philippa raises her eyebrows dramatically. “You are not Vulcan, Michael.”

No. And yes. She is both, there lies the crux of her pain.

She spent years being blind to who she was and to the kind of relationships she was cultivating around her. If she could be Vulcan enough, as a Human, then she would be worthy of the path she was placed on, by her parents, her foster family. But she failed at every turn and she tried at every turn to compensate for those failings.

Acknowledging it would have failed Surak’s teachings, and she was not following them anymore. She was bound by a different set of precepts. 

Seven years seemed so long still, seven years during which she changed gradually, she could see this. She has not changed to the extent some people have needed her too, like Amanda, Keyla, even Philippa, but she has grown. And all of it was to no avail because the premise upon which she built her understanding of the world was wrong.

Emotions _are_ factors. Her logic is not tainted by fear and guilt; it is lacking in them.

“I have wasted _years_ trying to apply inappropriate solutions to a problem, a faulty reading of the world that I created on my own.”

A breath draws past Philippa’s lips. 

“Michael, who you have been, who you are now… It’s not a transitory state. Even while changing, you are not someone _to be_ , who will be free later. You are not only the _after_ of what happened. You are forging your own path; as such it cannot be a failure.”

Philippa is watching her with boundless intensity. The shorter hair worn loose after her watch frames her face strikingly, her eyes catching the last light of the day. The coat opens on her black t-shirt and trekking trousers —in practice a pair of pajamas. Every detail is familiar here.

Down to the way her words deposit in the depth of Michael’s mind, building layers to be carried across time and space.

Philippa opens her mouth, hesitates before continuing.

“You see that, don’t you? I took _you_ on my ship, with your intelligence, your heart, and your pride, yes. I trust _you_ , not a potential version of you.” 

Her hand flies to Michael’s face and brushes a stray curl off her temple. Her fingertips catch on her cheekbone, and Philippa gazes up, smiling. 

 _"_ Take care of that woman and take pride in her because she is — _you_ are— magnificent. You are so much, Michael.”

The feeling Michael experiences now is familiar as well. It dates back to the first time Philippa beheld her skills with admiration in her eyes, the day they met. With time, the object of her esteem became more and more personal; their friendship grew, and something else.

It is provable and observable.

She has been a blind Vulcan —or Human— for the better part of her life; she has been a blind woman in love for months on this world. Clarity could go both ways. Love is a variable.

“Why are you like this?”

The question gets away from Michael, nonsensical.

Removing her hand, Philippa creases her nose in incomprehension. “Like this?”

“You have such strength in you, and you give it so freely.”

“To you, yes, naturally, you deserve—“

“But not you?”

Philippa’s lips twitch, but they stretch into a thoughtful smile instead of the dignified tenderness she has grown accustomed to finding in answer to her more personal concern.

“Michael…”

This world had been like a gilded cage, a vivarium for her fears. When a physical manifestation came to it, Michael took a chance, and it only revealed to her… the absurdity of her ways.

If indeed every moment mattered, even the ones when she didn’t move, those months trapped in Philippa’s company, forcing her to stand still when she was used to leading, they taught her just as much about her fears, the beliefs she holds, the barriers she set herself. 

Philippa went through the same journey.

The strategies Philippa elaborates, the caution she displays, even her empathy — they are the result of a faulty reading. She sees herself as a danger to Michael.

Catching her breath at the realization, Michael takes a step closer.

“In all this process, you were a _respite_ , Philippa, never a predicament.”

Philippa’s eyes widen, uncharacteristically hesitant. She does not appear to study Michael, but to hold her back, as if catching her attention before leaving in a hurry.

Outside the quiet contemplation of her thoughts and emotions, the theoretical bubble from which Michael observes the world, there is a large panel of actions she is beginning to suspect are possible. Sisyphean task, but this is not the quantum realm; she can observe, experiment, _touch_ now _._

A loud curse bursts out of the cave, nearly knocking Michael of her feet in shock. Philippa is already hurrying inside the cave, muttering under her breath. She forgot to tell Shands not to come. 

“Oh, no, I am not drinking that thing again! Get away from me, you ten-legged beanpo— Captain, where are the phasers?”


End file.
